Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (26 page)

“Gentlemen,” said he, “I'm no speaker, but I'm a sportsman—(applause). If you'll let my hounds alone, and give them fair play and room to hunt, I'll be bound to say I'll show you sport, but if you override them—I—I—don't know what I'll do—” said he, with a shake of the head, amidst a roar of laughter. “S'pose then,” continued he, after a pause, “that we drink ‘Foxhunting,' and be off to it!” So saying, he drained his glass, and, pocketing his napkin, which he thought was a present, with an outward bulge of his person towards Mrs Large, he rolled out of the room.

“He's a rum 'un,” whispered one, as Facey got out of hearing.

“He is that,” muttered another.

“Good sportsman,” observed a third.

“Man of large pror-perty,” said Mr Large, as he felt bound to support him.

“Presumes upon that, perhaps,” rejoined a fifth.

Then the ladies canvassed him freely.

“How old should you say he is?” asked Mrs Large of the company generally.

“Perhaps five-and-thirty,” said Mrs Cumberledge.

“Oh, far more than that, mamma!” exclaimed Miss Cumberledge, who wished to deter Miss Agnes de Flouncey from thinking of him.

“He's such an ugly man,” said Miss Agnes, going on the running-down tack also.

“I shouldn't say he was ugly, Agnes,” rejoined Mrs Joseph Large—“plain man, but pleasant. He has a good deal to say for himself.”

“A good deal of money, I suppose,” sneered Miss Cumberledge, as if she was quite above any mercenary consideration.

“He looks like a great, rich man,” observed little Miss Ellerby, who, pleading guilty to twenty-five (as she was in reality thirty-three), would have had no objection to have him.

Still, notwithstanding these expressions of opinion from the few, it would have been extremely difficult to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion from the many, as to Mr Romford's character and qualifications—his independent manner, coupled with his reputed vast possessions, confusing, if not misleading the judgment. Here, again, if the parties had only known that he was a mere hound-stealing, penniless adventurer, they would have had no hesitation whatever in the matter. “Great clown,” or “great lout” would have been the verdict. As it was, however, they seemed rather to concur with Independent Jimmy in thinking that he was not a “man of much blandishment.” But having seen him in the house, let us now follow him to the field, teapot-handle-maker, company, and all.

“To horse!—to horse!” is now the cry.

M
R
F
ACEY
R
OMFORD
'
S SUBSTANTIAL FIGURE
under the handsome portico of Pippin Priory had a very salutary influence on Daniel Swig, who was just trotting his hounds gaily back to the bottle, unable any longer to resist its seductive influence.

He had had three glasses already, and another would in all probability have made him revert to the glorious days when he was the “Hurl of Scamperdale's Daniel!” to the disparagement of his service with our Master. Not but that he was a great deal better done by than he was with the Heavyside Hunt, but still the recollection of the Hurl, and the contrast with Facey were sometimes too much for Daniel's sensitive, excitable temperament.

Chowey, on the other hand, was more cosmopolitan in his views. He was ready to praise any master with whom he had ever lived, provided he thought the praise would be likely to put a shilling or two in his pocket.

He, too, had done homage to the gin bottle, and between visits, had been composing his extraordinary proboscis, and casting about, looking at the field to see whose acquaintance he could claim, whom he could compliment on a desperate leap with the Hatherstone, or remind that he had seen him swim a river, like a harm of the sea, with the Berkshire. Was he as hard a rider now? Ingenious Chowey! Who could resist such soft sawder as that? But to our meet.

The plot had greatly thickened since Mr Romford entered the Priory.

Instead of the mole-catcher, the rat-catcher, the earth-stopper, the man with the three-year old filly in the breaking bridle, and the usual circus-like ring of pedestrians, there were groups of knowing sportsmen clustering here and there, following and intercepting the hounds when they moved.

“What's that hound, huntsman?” demanded a gentleman in scarlet, in a very hundred-pounds-a-year sort of voice.

“Which, sir?” replied Swig, with a respectful touch of his new velvet cap, not knowing what the inquirer might be good for in the way of a tip, when tipping time came.

“There, that, the lemon-pied one, just under your horse's bead!”

“Oh, that's Comforter, sir. Comforter, good dog!” continued Swig, as Comforter looked up on hearing his name.

“Ah, Comforter; by the Cottesmore Combatant, isn't he?” asked the gentlemen.

“No, sir; by the Burton Bellman. Bellman was by Lord Yarborough's Boisterous, Boisterous by the Cheshire Bluster, Bluster by the Bedale Buster by Sir Tatton Syke's Barbarous, Barbarous by the Right Honourable the Hurl of Scamperdale's Brilliant.”

So Swig shut the inquirer up with a perfect torrent of fabulous pedigree.

Facey, who knew what they were after as well as they did themselves, paused, and looked on with a smile at their pointings, and winkings, and nudgings, feeling satisfied they could take no exception to his hounds. His horses might have some little peculiarities about them, but they were more mental than bodily defects, and clipping and shaving did all that the most scientific, self-sufficient stud groom could accomplish in the way of condition. So he came, lowering his hat string, looking carefully into the crowd to see if there was any one who could blow him—anyone who could knock the Turbot off its tail—any of the Heavysides or Gilroy set.

Dash it! that square out wide-buttoned coat was uncommonly like Oliver Jogglebury's, thought he; so were the boots, and the legs, and the action. Dashed if Facey didn't think it was Oliver. By Jove! what a go it would be if it were a nephew of old Jog's.

Just then the alarming party turned round, and in lieu of Oliver's dark, almost copper-coloured face, disclosed a nearly white one, with stubbly ginger whiskers, and white eyelashes.

“Thank heavens, that's all right!” gasped Mr Romford, now relieved by the sight. “Thank heavens, that's all right!”

But scarcely had he regained his composure, ere a pair of very luxuriant, inward curling, jet-black whiskers, struck him as impossible to belong to any one but Colonel Bannerman.

Couldn't be two such pairs in the world, thought Facey, and again his heart mounted to his mouth, as he remembered the trifle he owed the Colonel on the Derby, and how he had warranted a three-legged horse to him as sound. Fortunately, however, our friend was again deceived. The whiskers belonged to Mr Bradley Smith of Rushden, a member of the Larkspur Hunt, a gentleman not in the least like the blackleg Colonel. And Facey was again comforted. Fortune favoured the brave, he thought, so vaulting gaily over the light palisade that separated the green slope on which the Priory stood from the Park, he advanced confidently towards the parti-coloured crowd—now clustered about the pack—still culling and criticising their size, colour, and condition.

The hounds now raised a half-melodious, half-rebellious sort of cry at Swig and Chowey, as our Master advanced, that as good as said, “All you are only the servants that look after us, this is the boy that shows us sport.” Some of the more independent then broke away altogether, jumping and frolicking towards Mr Facey.

“Gently, Blithsome!” cried our Master, swinging his whip round as Blithsome wiped her paws right down his fine new coat-back. “Get away, you fool,” added he, with a frown and stamp of his foot, as if Blithsome ought to know he had got his new coat on, as well as he himself did.

At this juncture, up waddled his host in a pair of excruciatingly tight boots, and getting our Master familiarly by the handle, proceeded to push and steer him up to several groups of sportsmen, presenting him to them at random. Mr Blanton—Mr Romford, Mr Brogdale—Mr Romford, with such rapidity, that it was utterly impossible for Facey to follow him, so adopting the old poacher's advice to his son, of always blazing into the “brown on em,” he gave two or three general aerial sweeps with his arm, as he kept sidling away for his horse.

A little to the left of the pack walked the magnificent “Baker,” late “Placid Joe,” in all the pride of superlative condition, looking as demure as a Quaker, and as if he had never done anything wrong. He had, indeed, been greatly admired; his size, his strength, his substance and it seemed to be generally agreed that such a horse could not be procured under a couple of hundred guineas. Some said three hundred, but those were the boys who never gave more than thirty themselves.

Then Mr Facey having gained him, and thanked the man in charge for his trouble, which was all he was in the habit of doing, he swung himself into his saddle, and felt all the better for being there. Drawing the thin rein he felt him lightly with his leg, and proceeded to pass on to the pack. Meanwhile his host had raised fresh recruits for the honour of presentation; and the old process, Mr Kickton—Mr Romford, Mr Bullpig—Mr Romford, was resumed.

At length Mr Facey, thinking he had been sufficiently exhibited, got his horse short by the head, and, hallooing to his host to know what he should draw first, with Swig in advance and Chowey a little behind, he moved gaily away, with the glad pack now clustering and frolicking around him—the presentation napkin just peeping out of his pocket as he went. There was a large field—fifty or sixty horsemen, perhaps—which of course a generous public would call a hundred, Jessop-ites, Romford-ites, Any-thing-else-ites. And great was the talk and commotion the hounds raised. It seemed to be generally agreed that it was an undeniable turn-out, but some thought Facey's manners
brusque
, and that he did not make sufficient distinction between the large subscribers and the small ones. Poor Facey couldn't tell by their looks what they gave.

A lawn meet generally involves a little deception, or what Independent Jimmy would call “blandishment,” and Facey had to run his hounds through several improbable places that had never held a fox in the memory of man, and in all probability never will. Still, it was part of the programme, and, of course, he conformed to it. First he tried the laurel walk, and the rhododendron beds, then he went to the deodara grove, and was moving on to the summer-house hill when a green and red gamekeeper came up and announced that he had seen a fox sitting under the projecting ridge of Silverstream Slate Quarry. This was Mr Charley Slinker, a gentleman pretty well known in gunning circles, as also in the public-house and advertising lines, being constantly offering his services, either as a park-keeper, gamekeeper, head or single banded, sometimes indeed descending as low as an under gamekeeper, or even one who would devote himself entirely to trapping. But Charley, in his glory, was the occupant of such a place as he now had, living with a master who, knowing nothing about the matter, listened to his stories and worried anybody upon whom Slinker hounded him. There is no greater mischief-maker than a second-class gamekeeper. They are always hunting and frittering away character.

Well, up came Slinker to Romford, in manner aforesaid, and though friend Romford thought he looked like a scamp, he accepted the information, and telling him to lead the way, bid him put the fox away quietly, and hold up his white hat when he was gone. Facey then made a little
détour
with the hounds while Slinker performed his part of the ceremony. And the man's manner and official position tending to raise hopes, all the pedestrians and several of the equestrians followed to see what would happen. On Slinker stalked, full of consequence and expectation that Mr Romford would tip him a sovereign at least for the find. Arriving at the top of the quarry he clapped his hands loudly, and “
shew, shewed!
” expecting to see the fox bolt on the instant. Nothing of the sort however happened, some jackdaws flew out of the quarry, but no fox appeared. Looking rather disconcerted, the hero of the gun then stooped, and picking up a stone threw it at the place where he still thought he saw the fox lying. Another jackdaw then appeared.
Crack! crack!
now went several whips, in the midst of which Slinker descended, and, making for the spot, found the brown substance he had been taking for a fox was some fox-coloured fern! Nothing daunted, however, he returned boldly to the front, inveighing bitterly against the foot people, declaring that half of them ought to be hung—that he had seen the fox there every morning for the last month, and now they had put him away just when the hounds had come to hunt him. But he knew who had done it! He knew who had done it! It was that Geordey Mason, because he wouldn't let him come to the rook-shooting. He'd pay him off that he would.

Mr Romford, little chagrined, for he did not expect much from his man, then took his further directions from Mr Joseph Large, who, wishing to get out of his tight top-boots as soon as he could, told our Master he had better go at once to Winstable Wood, and not potter about wasting time any longer. Whereupon Mr Romford's broad shoulders assumed the jerk of activity, which, having communicated itself to the rest of the field, away the whole party went, bump bump, trot trot, trotting to the bob, bob, bobbing of the men's caps in advance. So they passed through the hamlets of Shinley and Crumpton, to the delight of the children and the astonishment of the poultry, each, particularly one old hen, thinking the whole force of the movement was directed against her.

As the teapot-handle-maker, in his purgatorial tops, was borne along on a very fractious rough-actioned chestnut horse, he inwardly thought that the trouble of hunting was greater than the pleasure. He thought he would like to do it by deputy. Send the coachman out instead. Why should he be tormented in this way?—riding a nasty, capering, hotheaded brute that wanted to have the whole road to itself, and, if he gave it its head, would infallibly run clean away with him?—Why, indeed! “Rot the brute! there it goes again!” exclaimed Joseph, as the irritated chestnut threw up its head and nearly flattened his snub nose. And Joseph inwardly wished he had him in a good rough ploughed field, where he could give him the slack rein and ride him to a stand-still to punish him for his impetuosity. Why couldn't he take things quietly?—and thereupon he gave him a cropper that made the horse worse. Thus Joseph proceeded on his way anything but rejoicing. Meanwhile Bolingbroke was comfortably at home feeding his pigeons.