Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (48 page)

Romford looked unutterable things, for, besides the disappointment of a good introduction to a master of fox-hounds, he had had a bill sent in for two new gates which he was sure the fat boy had smashed the last time he enlarged his quadruped at Pine Hill Clump, besides which he owed him one for the trespass in his country. So Romford just gave him two fore-fingers of his left hand, holding his flute in his right one as if he was going to break it over his head. The ceremony of introduction thus over, Facey then resumed his seat, and the fat boy having looked round the room to find a chair large enough to hold him, at length wheeled one up to the scene of the music, and composed himself in it. Miss then rang the bell to let mamma know Mr Stotfold was come, thinking it better to have four people in the room than three. Mamma presently came sailing in, and received the great stag-hunter in state. Still she saw by Mr Romford's face that all was not right. It wore much the same sort of aspect that it did on the unfortunate bag-fox morning.

Not so, however, Mr Stotfold's. From living so much alone, he had a pent-up torrent of words to discharge, and, having now got a listener in Mrs Watkins, he opened the flood-gates of his vehemence and squeaked and chattered away with the utmost volubility, in the midst of which Facey and Cassandra resumed the interrupted melody of “Dixey's Land.” Before they concluded, friend Willy made his appearance, nursing and feeling his side hair as usual, and then Mr Stotfold had another victim to his noise.

We need scarcely say that this being what Facey would call a “bye-day,” Lubbins had not the satisfaction of displaying her cookery, and the thing was very flat and unprofitable compared to the former occasion. The fact was, Mr Facey had been over with his flute once or twice since then, and Mrs Watkins hoped things were gradually drawing into the family circle line; they, therefore, only sat down eight to dinner, Mr Tuckwell, Mr Horsington, and Mrs Dust, near and short-notice neighbours making up the number. Mrs Dust, of course, was engaged to help to keep the course clear for Cassandra. But if the party was small, the noise was great; the fat boy going in at everything that was said, and giving his opinions in the most authoritative way. When, however, the ladies retired, the real amusement commenced, for not content with lauding the stag-hounds, he must needs sneer at the fox-hounds, which of course got Mr Romford's back up, who held fox-hunting to be the finest sport in the world. So the evening did not pass very harmoniously, and Mr Facey was glad when he found himself back in the drawing-room.

Let us now pass on to the next morning.

O
H, MAMMA, THERE'S
L
ORRIMER, THE
latheman's cart!” exclaimed our lisping friend, looking out of the window, as they all sat at breakfast the next morning. “I'll get him to examine my black lathe scarf.”

“Laceman!” squeaked Stotfold, looking out, adding, “No;
It's
my deer-cart.”

“Deer-cart!” replied Miss Watkins, jumping up and running to the window, adding, “Deer-cart is it? Why, who'd have thought of a deer keeping a cart?”

Squeakey was right, however. It was indeed the deer-cart—the deer-cart followed by a most heterogeneous assemblage of foot-people, collected from the various villages through which it had passed on its way from the station. High up on a solitary seat sat the driver, dressed in Lincoln green, lording it over the old white horse as though he were driving four-in-hand. The lofty vehicle, which was painted dark green, was ventilated from the roof, and displayed on its side, in white letters on a black ground, the walking advertisement of “A
UGUSTUS
S
TOTFOLD
, E
SQUIRE'S
D
EER
-C
ART
, P
ICKERING
N
OOK
” The vehicle, as Hood says in his “Epping Hunt,” was—

Then a deputation from the stables having met the procession, and fixed upon the exact spot—a slightly rising ground just before the mansion-house, where the noble animal might be enlarged in full view of all the spectators—Lincoln green wheeled the cart round, and dropping his reins on the old white horse's back, prepared his own mouth to receive the contents of the then coming cup—

The drain over, he returned the mug, and then rising in his little seat, began flagellating his own chest with his arms, causing the Benicia Boy, for it was none other than the mischievous fellow inside, to stamp and thump with his feet, to the terror of the little boys who expected to have him amongst them directly. The more the man thrashed, the more the deer stamped, doubtless expecting every moment to be ejected from his comfortable carriage. And, now, where are all your visions of rousing the antlered monarch from his lair, ye enthusiastic souls? Or where the wild expanse of country, ye romantic ones? One view of the deer-cart on the smooth lawn, has dispelled them all! Yet nobody likes to exclaim, “Wot a go!” But see! here comes Jack Rogers and the hounds! Jack about half seas over from the ovations he has received on the road. His cap is cooked jauntily above the left ear, his pink is thrown carelessly open, even to the exposure of a much-stained buff vest, while his badly-cleaned boots seem on the worst possible terms with his dirty Bedford cords, hardly indeed inclined to approach them at all.

He is riding a great raking, white-heeled, cock-throppled chesnut, who throws his snaffle-bridled head up and down in a way that would look very like spoiling Jack's beauty if he had any. A little behind the pack, comes a diminutive man, in a red coat and drab gaiters, riding a most powerful dray-horse-looking brown for the fat master. This is a horse called “Hatter-his-heart-out,” from his notorious rough action, a quality that, while it has caused his ejection from other stables, has procured him admission into Mr Stotfold's, whose idea of a hunt corresponds with the familiar label on a doctor's bottle, “When taken to be well shaken.”

Jack Rogers wishing to have his kennel “sweetened a little,” as he calls it, an operation of not very frequent occurrence with him, has brought out all its contents, young and old, big and little, wild and steady, coupling up the most incorrigible, and ruling over the whole with a formidable loose thonged whip, held ready for immediate action. Jack is evidently of honest Sancho Panza's opinion, “that it is good to have command, if only over a flock of sheep;” so he rides in the middle of his curs, looking as solemnly wise as half-drunken men generally do. The hounds raised a wild cry as they caught sight of the deer-cart, and would infallibly have broken away had not Jack distributed sundry telling cuts amongst the thick of them, thus converting their cries into howls. This second scene of the grand sporting drama, again roused the inmates of the house, and as the ladies now withdrew to put on their bonnets, Mr Romford crowned himself with his drab wide-a-wake, and, providing himself with a good cutting whip from the armoury in the passage, opened the front door, and vaulting the rails, proceeded to where the noisy group stood baying—towling, howling, and scratching themselves. We don't know whether it was instinct or chance, or the effect of previous instruction, but Jack gave our Master of Foxhounds such a salute with his cap as seldom falls to the lot of any man in mufti. It wasn't a touch of the peak, or a rise, or a lift, but a bold bodily take-off from the head, with a fine aerial sweep that nearly brought his cap in conjunction with his cock-throppled horse's ears. The hounds too increased their vehemence, so that altogether there was a very pretty reception.

Mr Romford, who was used to caps, good, bad, and indifferent, just jerked his hand in return, and proceeded to cast his scrutinising little eyes into the body of the pack—a very slight inspection satisfied him that he had never seen such a collection before.

“Nice looking lot of hounds,” at length said he, addressing Jack, who sat cockeyly on his horse, waiting the customary compliment.

“Yes, they are,” replied Jack, “very nice looking lot of hounds—good as they look, too.”

“Set of rubbish,” muttered Romford, turning half round on his heel.

“Want a little dressing here, don't you?” asked Romford, rubbing his whip down the back of a desperately dull broken-coated hound.

“Ah, why he scratched whiles,” replied Jack, “but it's nothin' to signify.”

“Isn't it?” thought Romford. He then took another good stare at the pack.

“Are they any particular blood?” at length asked Romford, not being able to recognise the slightest family likeness amongst them.

“Well, no,” replied Jack; “we just pick them up here and there. That one,” pointing to our before-mentioned yellow friend Wideawake, “is from the Kensal Green Kennel—one of the best hounds p'raps in England. There's another,” said Jack, pointing to Wiseacre.

“Good as he's ugly, I 'spose?” muttered Facey.

Squeakey and Willy Watkins now joined the gay throng, the latter in a desperate funk; for if fox-hunting was formidable, stag-hunting, he understood, was tremendous—always went straight. Still he essayed to keep up his courage; and advancing, whip under arm, as he drew on his white buckskin gloves, he proceeded to return Jack Rogers' vehement salute, Jack being now further fortified by a couple of glasses of Dalberry Lees rum.

“Monstrous nice pack!” exclaimed Watkins at random, “Monstrous nice pack!” hardly knowing what he was saying, but wishing most devoutly that he was coming in from hunting instead of going out. “Oh, dear! Why was there ever such torment invented?” thought he.

“Well, and how's the Benicia Boy this morning?” squeaked Stotfold, as soon as his huntsman's attentions were directed to him.

“Oh, why he seems pretty hamiable, I think,” replied Jack “but I've brought Old Scratch in case he shouldn't run.”

“Ah, which have you here?” squeaked the Master.

“The Boy,” replied Jack. “Scratch is shut up in the lamp-room at the Galliburn Station.”

“Hope they won't let him out?” squeaked Mr Stotfold.

“No fear of that, unless he comes out at the skylight; for I've got the key of the door,” said Jack, produced a large ringed key from his coat pocket as he spoke.

“All right,” squeaked the Master; adding, “'praps you may as well be going?” Then turning to Mr Watkins, he asked, “if there was any place where they could put up the hounds while they turned out the stag?”

“Oh, yes,” replied Mr Watkins, rather taken aback at the question, his idea being that they all started fair together. “Oh, yes; put them up somewhere;” adding, “ask my man;”—our friend not exactly knowing whether they should be up-stairs, or down-stairs, or in my lady's chamber.

Away then Jack trotted up to the stables, and the interest of the scene was again concentrated on the deer-cart. There it stood as solemn as before, looking like a double-tailed tadpole, with its two tapering lines of spectators bearing away from its body. If the horsemen mustered meagerly, the deficiency was amply supplied by the footpeople.

It seemed to have attracted all the idle population of the country, and the cry was still They come! they come! Joiners in their paper caps, shoemakers in their leather aprons, grooms in their fustians, gardeners in their shirt sleeves, all agog to see the wonderful wild beast. The fair sex too were duly represented and besides a Barcelona “crack-'em-and-try-'em” nut-merchant, there were two orange-girls, and an unlicensed dealer in spirituous liquors. Expectation stood on tip-toe as to what the solemn looking deer-cart contained, one thinking the stag would be like a unicorn, another that he would resemble a goat, a third that he would be like Billy Batson's ram. Still, whatever it was, they all seemed disposed to give him a wide berth, by keeping a most respectful avenue open for him instead of giving him a chance of sticking or eating any of them up when he came out.

And now, as our fat friend waddled round the corner from the stables, the commotion increased; the deer's coachman moved his van a few paces to arouse the noble animal, whose formidable feet might now be heard stamping upon the boards of his equipage.

The fever of excitement was then at its height. The gaping rustics stared wider than ever, the big boys stepped back a pace or two, and the little ones trembled, many of them wishing themselves at home again. But when the fat boy squeaked the order to “Let
'im out!”
there was a feeling of disappointment throughout the throng; for there were neither horses, nor hounds, and those who expected to see the stag start off directly, thought he would be over Ramford Hill before they could ever get them out. On this point, however, they were presently undeceived, for though the door was opened by the old gentleman in charge, creeping cautiously along the top of the van and shooting the bolt, yet no deer appeared, and those who durst take a peep in from either side, saw a rather donkeyfied-looking animal backing its hind-quarters against the far end of the vehicle, as though it wanted to be out that way. But the old gentleman in green, who had a long whip, much at the service of the animal, proceeded to administer the but end through the ventilator; and after sundry downward thumps, producing a series of indignant snorts and stamps, it at length operated beneficially, causing him to jump out, and, head in air, to trot leisurely down the avenue of spectators, amid the derisive shouts and yells of the mob. In truth the Benicia Boy was not a very wild or imposing looking animal, his coat being dull and worn in parts, while one of its sides was powdered with whitening caused by a restive rubbing against the wall of its town-house in Pickering Nook. Still the Boy could go when inclined, and had given our fat friend some severe leads out, indeed on one or two occasions had been lost altogether, or Jack Rogers having got rid of his master had pretended to lose him, in order that he might indulge in a drink, and resume the sport on the following day. But the Boy was not to be depended upon—sometimes he would go, and sometimes he wouldn't, in which latter case, of course there was nothing for it but the donkeyman's alternative that we mentioned before, of larruping him, an unbecoming proceeding with a beast of venery.