Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (50 page)

At length the Benicia Boy, having traversed some eight or nine miles of country, which at the old posting price of eighteen-pence a mile, and three-pence to the driver, would come to some fifteen shillings and nine-pence, possibly bethought him he had done enough for his dinner, and, being no longer tormented by the impetuous Wideawake, began casting about in search of repose. He did not want to break any more windows, for he thought he had scratched himself in the side at Miss Birch's, and would rather prefer a barn or an outhouse with some clean straw in it. So he skirted the side of Hackberry Hill—half field and half moor—staring complacently round the country in search of what he wanted. There was a church steeple in front, denoting a village, another to the left, with a third in the rear. The latter, however, wouldn't do, for he heard Jack's horn, with the occasional accompaniment of the hounds,—
yoou, yoou, yap, yap, yoou, yoou,
they went.

Just at this moment the picturesque outline of Pipeington Tilery presented itself, stretching its long length half across a five-acre field, offering every accommodation, including a mud-bath, that an aristocratic stag could desire; and thither our unantlered monarch decided on entrenching himself. So, sinking the hill, he struck boldly across country, not trying to take the tilery in the flank, but going right at the centre, spoiling as many green bricks as he could in passing over the drying ground. He then blobbed down into the spacious mud bath between it and the tilery, and began swimming and cooling himself in its yellow waters. Great was the commotion the descent caused in the tilery. Tom Sparrow, the boy in charge of the pug-mill, who saw him coming, and thought it was Geordy Crosier's trespassing donkey, now stared as a hen stares when her ducklings take water. The moulders ceased their labours, the wheelers dropped their barrows, the clay-diggers their spades, and the firemen left their furnaces. It was confusion all and consternation. What the devil was it? The cry of the hounds and the cheer of the hunters presently enlightened them; and, looking to the left, they saw the gallant pack streaming down Hackberry Hill, closely followed by Rogers and Romford, and the man on the grey.

“Sink it'll be a stag!” exclaimed one.

“So it will!” roared another.

“That fat man's from the Nook,” rejoined a third.

“Keep him in! keep him in!” was now the cry, as the Benicia Boy struck out boldly for the tilery. Then they hooted and shooed him, and pelted him with clay.

If the hounds tailed, so did the field; and Rogers, Jimmy, and Romford alone rode with the pack.

“He's taken soil!” exclaimed Jack, now pointing with his whip to the tilery commotion, as Romford and he galloped down Backberry Hill together.

“Soil, is it?” said Romford, “it looks to me very like water.”

“Oh, that's what we stag-hunters call soil,” replied Jack, inducting Romford into the science.

“Do you?” rejoined Romford, thinking they might as well call it by its right name.

“For-rard! for-rard!” cheered Jack, thinking that Romford cannot fail to be highly delighted with the performance. Jack then looks back for his master.

And sure enough, on the now almost white-lathered Hatter-his-heart-oat, comes the fat boy, puffing and blowing and looking very like a peony. He has indeed had a tremendous gallop, Hatter-his-heart-out having acted well up to his name, and nearly shaken him to pieces. Since our master, Mr Stotfold, declined the dangerous in favour of Jack Rogers, he has had a good deal of rough fencing to contend with alone; none of the leaders of the chace doing much for their followers in the way of breaking the fences, and the heterogeneous group who united their fortunes with his, expecting “red coat” to do all for them. So he had nothing for it but to throw his magnanimous heart over each fence, and follow it as quickly as ever he could. And though Hatter-his-heart-out was a desperately rough galloper, he was a very smooth leaper; measuring, however, his ground so closely, as always to make the fat boy think he was going to let him down, thus keeping him in a state of constant labour and excitement.

Indeed but for the honour and credit of the thing, he should have preferred stopping before; for though it was undoubtedly a good thing to get a good gallop, yet the operation might be overdone, and the appetite injured instead of promoted. What he wanted was, to bring it home with a bloom upon it that would entitle him to oysters and porter and a substantial repast after. That he thought he had got before he came to the windmill, consequently all that had taken place since was what might be called work of supererogation. And now that he saw the prospect of a close, his flagging spirits rose within him, and getting Hatter-his-heart-out short by the head, he stood in his stirrups giving a squeaking cheer to his followers as he pointed out the strange confusion in the vale below. He then made for the tilery as hard as ever he could. What a hubbub was there! Clowns from all parts had turned up to the scene—clowns from the ploughs, clowns from the harrows, clowns from the hedges, just as the roughs turn up in London at the prospect of a row—Willy and Harry and Jackey and all.

They thought the stag was going to be killed, and that they might come in for a slice. So they hemmed the Benicia Boy in on all sides, determined he shouldn't get away, despite Squeakey's urgent entreaties that they would let him land. Then the before-mentioned rope was produced from Mr Stotfold's inner pocket, and Hatter-his-heart-out being resigned to a lad, our Master commenced lassoing the stag with clumsy dexterity. Now he was near him, now he was wide; now he was near him again. At length he lassoed and landed him, amid the cheers of the populace. Instead, however, of sticking and skinning him as the countrymen expected, giving the head to Willy, the neck to Jackey, and the haunch to Harry, Mr Stotfold began staring about, squeaking for the carriage. He wanted the old gentlemen in green again.

“Have you seen my fellow?—have you seen my fellow?” demanded he, running from party to party.

“Have you seen my fellow?” asks he, rushing up to Independent Jimmy, now standing by the side of the panting iron grey.

“Nor, arm d—d if iver ar did,” replied Jimmy, bursting into laughter.

At length the carriage was seen stopping the way at the top of Cinderby Lane, and a man of the place was induced by the promise of a shilling to go and conduct it through the field to the tilery. The while it was jolting its way down the rutty road, nearly tilting old Solomon out of his seat, our fat friend cast about on foot fishing for compliments on the length and severity of the run.

“Capital (puff) gallop,” said he, cooling his cauliflower head by taking off his cap. “Excellent (gasp) run,” continued he, mopping his brow with a yellow Bandana. “Never saw the old (puff, gasp,) Benicia Boy in such (puff) before. Can't have come less than twenty miles—twenty (puff) miles in (puff) and twenty minutes.

Then he approached Mr Romford, who he thought ought to have come to him.

“Well, and what do you (puff) of it?” asked he, still continuing the mop of his greatly perspiring brow.

“Well oi, ha-hem-haw, think it's just about the ha-hem-haw sport oi know,” replied Mr Romford, adding “oive half a mind to set up a pack myself to hunt the same day as the foxhounds, in order to draw off the superfluous of the field.”

And the fat boy, feeling the compliment, but fearing the consequences, blurted out in reply—

“Don't my (gasp) feller, I'll (puff) mine down whenever you (gasp).”

And thereupon he tendered his fat hand to Romford, who concluded the bargain with a shake.

The deer-carriage then came jolting down to the tilery, and a feed of oats in front and a kick behind soon sent the Benicia Boy back into the place from whence he came, amid the jeers and cheers of the populace.

Just then the sound of lamentation arose high above the shouts and clamour of the crowd. It was Jack Rogers bewailing the loss of his favourite hound, running about wringing his hands, asking if anyone had seen him. “Seen a yellow pied hound with a short tail—a yellow pied hound with a short tail?” But we need scarcely say that nobody at the tilery has, for Miss Birch having kept the redoutable dog safe under lock and key until her strong job gardener came, he administered such a bastinadoeing as sent the old dog scampering home, with his short tail between his legs, as hard as ever he could. In vain, therefore, Jack whooped and halloaed, and twanged his horn. No Wideawake came.

“Oh, he'll cast up,” at length squeaked Mr Stotfold, getting tired of the wait. “He'll cast up,” repeated he, making for where Hatter-his-heart-out was still being led about by the boy. Then, getting the horse into a clay hole, he made a vigorous assault on the saddle, and, having settled himself in his seat, he chucked the lad a shilling, and drawing his thin reins, with a touch of the spur put his thick horse in motion.

The hunt was then up; the disappointed chaws returned to their clays and their clods; anxious Jack Rogers moved off with his hounds, still casting about for the lost one; and Mr Romford was surprised to learn from Independent Jimmy that they were only five or six miles from Dalberry Lees.

“Ar'll show you the way,” said Jimmy, jumping on to the bare-backed grey; and taking a line of his own, irrespective of either gates or gaps, he proceeded to make his way across country.

“Ar think nout o' this stag-huntin',” observed Jimmy, running the grey at a great on-and-off bank, with a wide ditch on each side.

“Nor I,” rejoined Mr Romford, following him.

“When you've catched the stag, ye're ne better off than ye were afore,” observed Jimmy.

“Just so,” said Romford.

Jimmy then angled a wide pasture at a trot, and was presently contemplating a rough, bush-entwined, rail-mended-fence with a too obvious brook on the far side. Jimmy ran the grey at a rail, but, hitting it with its fore feet, it landed on its head, shooting Jimmy well over it.

“Greate numb beast!” exclaimed Jimmy, jumping up and catching the horse as it rose. He then pulled the rail out for Romford.

A few more fields brought them to where Jimmy had placed his second horse; which now having reached, he prepared to resuscitate the melon-frame, leaving Mr Romford to pursue his journey without him.

“Ye can't miss yer way,” said Jimmy, jerking his head in the direction of Dalberry Lees. “Ye can't miss yer way. Just keep axin for the biggest feuil in the country, and they'll be sure to send yer to Lees.” So saying, he gave our master a nod, and turned away to the right.

Mr Romford then rode on, and having a good eye for country, soon took his bearings, and without troubling any of the country people with the inquiry Jimmy propounded, speedily found his way back to the glittering gates. Then having arrived at the house, he alighted at the front door and desired a footman to take the horse round to the stable; which saved him an interview with Gullpicker, Mr Watkins's Melton groom, whom nobody would have at Melton. Then Miss met him, all radiant with smiles, so glad to see him safe back; mamma was delighted to hear Mr Romford say he was much amused with the hunt, and altogether she thought they had made a great hit in having the fat boy down. And out came the flute and the harp for “Bob Ridley.”

M
R
F
ACEY
R
OMFORD HAD NOW
got pretty well settled in his saddle in Doubleimupshire. He had seen most of the great guns of the country: the Watkinses and the teapot-handle man, and had now extended his acquaintance to the fat boy and the interesting family of the neighbouring master of hounds, Mr Hazey. He had also established a nodding and “how-are-ye” acquaintance with the non-hunting Fuller, and Fowler, and Binks, and Brown, and Postle, and Hucklebridge, whom he prudently sir'd or mister'd in blank, instead of risking a shot at their names, and perhaps making a bad hit. There is nothing people dislike so much as being misnamed.

The country, if not first-rate, was fairly sporting: good enough for those who lived in and knew it, and yet not good enough to tempt peripatetic sportsmen out of their ways, unless, indeed, they happened to have a billet with someone in it. This immunity from strangers was a great comfort to Mr Romford, for some men are troubled with such a mania for pack-seeing, that there is no saying but an inquisitive stranger might have strayed from the other Mr Romford's, and instituted an invidious comparison between our Master and him. Not that anyone could take exception to our friend's hounds, or his horses, or his system of hunting; but they might have raised the question, Which was the right Romford?—asserted, perhaps, that Facey was not the man who lived at Abbeyfield Park, which would have been very discouraging and difficult to gainsay. A master of hounds ought not to have his attention distracted by extraneous matter—especially a master hunting his own hounds, as our friend did.

Like most countries, Doubleimupshire varied a good deal: some parts of it being good, some of it indifferent, and much of it bad. The low-lands were deep and boggy, with great false-bottomed drains, large enough to hold both horse and rider; but, then, these very drains contributed to the sound riding of the up-lands, they being, in fact, the receivers and conveyers of the superfluous water that fell. Then there were the Bentley Hills, over which hounds raced; and the Heckington and Stanborough vales, where they dwelt, requiring all the Romford science and energy to get them along. Taking the country, however, as a whole, the soil was favourable to scent, as the staple of it was generally good. And Romford's hounds could solve the difficult problem, “Which way has he gone?” in most parts of it.

The best part of the country, undoubtedly, lies between Shervington Bridge and the town of Farmington Hill; but, then, it was infested by game preservers, who were generally suspected of Dalberry Lees practices, with regard to the illicit production of foxes. Formerly, three fields out of every four in this part were ploughed; but, since the repeal of the corn laws, the system has been reversed, and three fields are now in old grass or clover ley, for one that is under the plough. The enclosures, too, are large and roomy—twenty and thirty acres each, with not over and above strong fences; but the land is deep and holding—or what Mr Otto Musk, the Leicestershire swell who got straggled there, once described as “flat, dirty, and unpleasant.” Still, there were no fences mended with old wire-rope in it, and the brooks are generally fairly jumpable—at least, when not flooded.