Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (15 page)

“There are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it,” said Facey, determining to take another try in the advertising line; and forthwith he concocted a very specious announcement, offering the services of a gentleman with an excellent pack of hounds, to whom subscription was a secondary consideration to sport, to hunt a country, either for a term of years or for the remainder of the season. And having despatched the same to “Bell's Life” and the “Field,” he quietly waited the result—amusing himself as best he could at the aforesaid Dog and Partridge Inn.

As luck would have it, the very first announcement brought an application from a gentleman, signing himself “Simon Greenfield, of Greenfield House, Honorary Secretary to the Larkspur Hunt,” asking him what he could do that season—immediately, indeed. The Larkspur Hunt, like the Heavyside one, had long been a free-gratis establishment—so long that the natives had ceased to look upon not subscribing as any accommodation; and when old Mr Bloomfield at length died, they had no doubt that plenty of people would be found ready to take the country on the same terms as he had had it. But experience shows, that with the great increase of wealth has not come a corresponding desire to support hounds, subscriptions being more difficult to collect now than they were fifty years ago. Formerly, hunting with shooting, satisfied a man: hunting from home, and shooting from home, both in reason and moderation. But now everybody must do everything: hunt in Leicestershire, shoot in Scotland, fish in Norway, race at Newmarket, and yacht everywhere, to say nothing of the necessity of enjoying the expenses of a London season, whether he likes town or not. As to a resident taking the hounds, that is a thing not to be thought of; hence, we have a breed of migratory masters—men like Mr Romford—who alight upon a country, and live out of the establishment. There were plenty of what Mr Romford would call “able men” in Doubleimupshire (the scene of the Larkspur Hunt operations), but they were all either gentlemen enjoying life's wholesale recreations, or gentlemen most earnestly bent on making more money. The former gave their subscriptions more from coercion than anything else; while the latter found it more to their interest to subscribe liberally than to waste time which to them was money, in interfering with what they didn't understand, and with which they would most likely burn their fingers if they meddled. So they gave their money and stuck to their trades, some hunting for fashion, some medicinally, some for air and exercise, some they didn't know why. But as they were all
£.s.d
.-men, men deeply imbued with the spirit of gain, who had never been accustomed to the growing exorbitance of a pack of hounds, they always felt themselves imposed upon—never thought they got half enough for their money—never believed the hounds cost what they said, were always sure whoever had them was making money out of them, and so they went on until none but the worst of the migratory masters would touch, and at last even they began to fight shy. At length the country became vacant altogether, and had got so far into the season without hounds, when Mr Romford's opportune advertisement appeared. It was looked upon as a very apropos announcement,—one that ought to be cultivated, and forthwith each man began screwing his neighbour to see if he could not induce him to subscribe a little more. The usual stock-victims,—the Lord Lieutenant, the County Members, and the Borough Members,—of course, were applied to, it being part of their duty to find funds for all. There was plenty of money in the county, plenty of plate and powdered footmen, but somehow the parties preferred producing the latter to the former. But plate and powdered footmen alone won't draw, and the ladies soon began to feel the want of the red-coats, and the enlivening meets of the hounds. In this respect they differed from the Heavyside ladies, who thought sherry and biscuits were all that was required; whereas the Larkspur ladies looked upon a hunt as a grand nucleus of society—the promoter of balls, breakfasts, dinners, races, conviviality of all sorts. And as the winter had opened gloomily, and threatened to be very dull, they were more than usually urgent and pressing, when they heard of the advertisement, lest some other country might catch the advertiser up; for we all fancy other people want what we do. So Mr Simon Greenfield, who gave his services to the hunt instead of subscribing, was instructed to reply to the advertisement on behalf of the members of the Larkspur Hunt, whose country, Doubleimupshire, was then vacant—asking who the liberal-minded gentleman was that was ready to take one. And on receipt of the note, Mr Romford replied, sealing the letter with the invaluable Turbot-sitting-on-its-tail seal, which spoke more forcibly than whole reams of satin note paper could have done. Mr Romford! Mr Romford! I know the name perfectly, exclaimed several. And forthwith there was a rush to the Burkes, and an anxious turn to the R's—Rippon, Robson, Robertson, roddam, oh yes—all right—here he is, Romford, Francis, Esq., J.P., D.L., seat Abbeyfield Park, patron of five livings, crest—a Turbot sitting upon its tail on a cap of dignity.” Just so!—here it is (holding up the letter), “a Turbot sitting upon its tail on a cap of dignity.” Well done, Romford, Francis, Esq. He would be the very man for their money.

The announcement caused great satisfaction in Doubleimupshire, for Mr Romford's name was good, and, as he could only be changing for the sake of improvement, the superiority of their county would doubtless compensate for any little deficiency in the matter of funds. And some of the small subscribers began to wish they had put themselves down for double the amount, seeing it was not likely to be called for. So Mr Simon Greenfield was requested to rejoin forthwith, and thereupon a reciprocity of paper-politeness took place between Mr Romford and him, in which the latter expressed his readiness to meet Mr Romford to confer on the matter at any place he might choose to appoint. And Facey, not caring to have him too near, replied, after a good consultation and calculation of Bradshaw, that fair play was a jewel, and he would meet him half way, naming the Trench Crossing station of the Union Railway, at Hopton Heath, which appeared to divide the distance as nearly as possible, and being quite private, would prevent any chance of interruption; in other words, prevent any one seeing him, and letting out that he was the wrong Romford. And so a meeting was appointed to take place accordingly.

T
HE TRENCH CROSSING STATION OF
the Union Railway at Hopton Heath was an isolated shed upon a bleak, barren plain, inhabited only by a solitary snipe of a station-master, who but for the appointment would have made a capital hermit. The Express trains shot past it with disdain, the first and second classes only stopped on demand, while the pick-ups and parlies alone pulled up voluntarily, and having once stopped seemed as if they would never go on again. Facey had been down that way once before on a crusade against Sir Charles Goodacre's pheasants, and knew how to change his third-class ticket for a first one at Fiddler's Ferry station so as to come up all right first class at the heath. His appearance on this occasion was very different to what it was then, his tenpenny wide-awake being exchanged for a good black hat, and his rough pouched-like garb for a very becoming sporting attire. In truth, Lucy Glitters—we beg pardon, Mrs Sponge—had civilised him amazingly, trimming his mane, and reducing the ruggedness of his uncouth all-round-the-face whiskers. Upon this occasion he sported a neat scarlet-and-white striped tie, secured with a splendid diamond (Brighton diamond) ring, that would have been worth many hundreds had it been real, whereas he had only given eighteenpence for it. Still it looked very handsome, and, though Mr Facey was ugly enough, he had the size and the action that carry a thing off. Then, when he discarded his smart gray or rather lavendercoloured paletot, he disclosed a neat, single-breasted, dark gray morning coat, striped buff vest, with Bedford-cord trousers, and buttoned boots. In his dog-skin gloved hand he clutched a green silk parasol-like umbrella, the property of Lucy, which looked altogether out of proportion to the monster who carried it.

A railway journey, unlike a road one, can either be made long or short, or middling, according to the taste and inclination of the traveller, and there is no limit to what steam will accomplish. Hence, it follows that time affords no criterion of the distance that a man may travel in a day. It all depends upon the train, whether he has flown by express, or taken it quietly by an ordinary train. Mr Romford did a little of all sorts, changing from one line to another, from one class to another, as did his travelling coadjutor from the contrary direction, until, like the weird sisters in Macbeth, they at length met upon the “blasted heath.” Facey came up in a slow train. Puff-whew-hew-ew-whiou, whew! and the sluggish monster at last got its cumbrous length laid alongside the little station. Out came the Snipe for a stare, never imagining that two passengers could want to alight there in one day. Two baskets he had had, and three boxes, in one day, but he never remembered two passengers. So he didn't proclaim the name of the station. Mr Romford, however, looked out and saw it, and prepared to alight. On the little platform stood a mildly drawn looking pink and white young gentleman, of some five-and-twenty or thirty years of age. Just the sort of man that Facey would like to have to negotiate with. A glance of his keen ferreting eyes told him that he could, what he called, “talk him off his legs in no time.” He was glad to see he was alone, for then he needn't mind what he said. Lowering the third of the remaining carriage window in which he was seated, he called to the Snipe to open the door, and then alighted with the stately deliberation of a man doing the consequential instead of the hurrying out of a second or third class carriage. Advancing towards where the stranger stood, he gave his new hat a groomy sort of a rap with his fore finger, accompanied by a duck of the head, and a mutter of “Mr Greenfield, I believe.”

“Mr Greenfield it is,” replied the placid stranger, with a smile, adding, “Mr Romford, I 'spose,” with a bow, whereupon Facey tendered him his substantial fist, and pump-handled him severely.

“Ticket, sir, please,” said the solitary Snipe, now coming up; which being delivered up, and Facey having arranged his paletot becomingly across his arm, and felt that the Brighton diamond was safe, turned again to the “Honorary Secretary,” saying, now let's go in and have a talk.” Thereupon Facey led the way into the diminutive waiting-room furnished with four black horse hair-bottomed mahogany chairs, a round table, and a gaudy-coloured oil-cloth on the floor. In the little watch-pocket-like grate of a fireplace a few very inferior coals were gradually smouldering into white ashes.

“Bring some fuel!” roared Facey, digging his capped toe into the midst of the remnant; and the want being supplied, he invited his friend to be seated on one of the chairs, and, taking another himself, stuck himself well before the fire, and thus opened upon him

“Now tell me first,” said he, fixing his little ferreting eyes full upon him—“Now tell me, do your people eat, or do they drink, or do they hunt? I mean,” said Facey, seeing the Honorary Secretary did not understand him, “do they talk about their cooks or about their wine, or about the sport they have had with the hounds?”

“Well, I don't know exactly,” replied Mr Greenfield, “they do a little of all three occasionally. There is a good deal of dinner company goes on, and where there is eating there will be drinking and talking too, you know.”

“Ah, I don't care about dinners,” replied Facey, with a shrug of his great round shoulders; “a little shooting would be more in my way. Tell me now, are your people good-natured about their shooting, or do they kick up a dust if anybody gets on to their ground by accident or mistake?”

“Oh, some of them are very good-natured indeed, others are only so-so—men vary you know.”

“So they do,” said Romford—“so they do; one man is no more a criterion for another than one horse is a criterion for another, or one hound a criterion for another. Every herring must hang by its own head.” He then began biting his nails and weeding his chin, as was his wont on critical occasions.

“Now tell me about the hounds,” at length resumed he, coming to the real purport of the interview. “Tell me about the hounds. How many days a-week do you want the country hunted?”

“Four,” replied Mr Greenfield, promptly.

“And the subscription?” rejoined Facey.

“Well, from sixteen to eighteen hundred a-year,” stammered Greenfield, who had been told to begin low.

“Sixteen to eighteen 'underd,” muttered Facey, pulling a sample out of his beard, and examining it attentively at the fire. “Sixteen to eighteen 'underd a-year,” repeated he. “How comes the uncertainty? There's a difference, you know, between sixteen and eighteen, you know—difference of two, I should say, though I don't know nothin' 'bout mathematics—'rithmetic, I should say.”

“There are always some people who put their names down and don't pay,” replied the Honorary Secretary.

“So there are,” said Facey, “and be hanged to them—so there are, as I know to my cost. Well, but I suppose we might put the subscription down at eighteen 'underd a-year,” continued he, pulling out his betting-book, and doing a little “'rithmetic”—“eighteen 'underd from three thousand, and twelve 'underd remains. That would leave twelve 'underd a-year for me,” said he, with a “can't-be-done-ish” sort of shake of the head.

“So much as that?” stared Mr Greenfield.

“The way I should do it,” replied Mr Facey—“the way I should do it. Of course there are some of these newfangled Marsh
¹
-like masters who will do it for less, and live out of the subscription too, but that sort of work wouldn't suit me. I must do the thing properly or not at all.”