It is ten years since Mr. Hall did the Bullshire country the honour of becoming a resident, and in that time he has managed to assert himself considerably, and may now be considered "no small pumpkins." At least the Hall family look on themselves in that light, and surely they must be the best judges.
Hallpèreis a good-natured open-handed sportsman, who rides the best horses, smokes the best cigars, and drinks the best wine that money can procure, but who has the misfortune to consider himself an authority on sport and hunting, and is also afflictedwith a weakness for seeing his lucubrations in print.
Mrs. Hall, on the other hand, affects the evangelical rôle, and is forever establishingcrèches, forming night-schools, and endeavouring to lead the young men of Bullshire in the way that they should go. She is also of a literary turn of mind, and has published more than once under the auspices of the S.P.C.K. Her latest effort was not quite a success, owing, she says, to "bitter and unchristian hostility."
She had spent much time on the completion of a "sporto-religious" novel—"one that anybody might read without a blush," as she put it; and when finished she called it "A Heavenly Hunt, or Hints by the Way."
Harold Lappington and a few kindred spirits, however, were unkind enough to parody the book; and a week afterwards was distributed broadcast throughout the country, "Running a Ring, or Hints on Matrimony."
The joke was too good not to beappreciated, and one may safely say that the only person who did not see it was Mrs. Hall herself. Even her husband laughed at her, and talked grandiloquently about writing on subjects that she did not understand.
It was for a long time a mystery to the members of the Hunt how the accounts of their sport got into the papers, and Sir John tried in vain to discover the reporter. Marvellously accurate were the descriptions of the run, names of places, distances, what each particular hound did, where Tom made his cast for better or for worse, and the various incidents or accidents of the chase were all set forth without an error. So men came to the conclusion that it must be some one of the hard-riders, and consequently were more puzzled than ever. Everybody was accused in turn—the Doctor, the Parson, even Mrs. Talford; but all denied the soft impeachment.
When the matter was alluded to at the hunt-dinner by Sir John, it was noticed thatMr. Hall did not look quite as if he was enjoying his dinner, and whispers of "It's old Hall; look at him," passed from one to the other.
"But then Hall never rides a yard. How the deuce could he know all about it?" said others; and the matter was as far from being solved as ever.
Old Tom, however, determines to get at the bottom of it, and as he rides to Brainsty cross-roads, he maps out a plan of operations. It is not a nice day by any means, a high blustering north-east wind blowing, as Tom says, "fit to turn yer inside out;" and, as he takes refuge with the pack behind a barn, the old Huntsman does not anticipate much sport. The field arrive by twos and threes, with heads bent down and upturned collars, looking as wretched as men generally do when beating up against a gale. Almost the last comer is Mr. Hall, who immediately gives it as his opinion that there cannot possibly be any fun, and that he should notbe surprised if Sir John took the hounds home.
"I've seen 'em run hard in worse weather nor this, sir," says Tom, with a smile and a shiver.
"Well, I never have, and you may take it I know something about hunting," replies the Authority.
"What's that?" asks the Master, who has just got on to his horse.
"Nothing, Sir John; nothing. I only said that there would be no sport, and Tom seems to think differently;" and then, turning to the men about him, Mr. Hall continues: "It's impossible for any scent to lie with this wind. Besides, what fox in his senses would face it?"
"There's more nor one kind o' scent, and if t' fox wunna face t' wind, ay mun travel wi' it," puts in Tom, and then trots off best pace to draw Ambleside Banks.
When they arrive at the covert, Mr. Hall informs everybody that "It is no use goingto the far side; no fox ever breaks there. Never has done yet;" and on some of his audience paying no attention, he shouts: "Oh, all right; don't blame me if you're thrown out."
Scarcely are the words out of his mouth than the sound of Tom's horn comes down on the wind, and the pack are away in full cry, the fox breaking just where Mr. Hall had said he would not. A sharp burst over two fields, a quick turn, and then down-wind like lightning, the pace increasing every yard.
Unfortunately for the Authority, he does not notice the turn, and, riding hard along the lane for a point, he finds himself on reaching the top of a small hill utterly lost, no sign of the hounds and no sound of any sort to guide him. After riding about aimlessly in every direction for the best part of an hour, he at last hears tidings of their being down Hinckley way, and off he goes, only to hear that "T' hounds a-been gone better nor twenty minutes." It is now gettinglate, so Mr. Hall makes up his mind to ride home viâ the kennels, where for a moment we will leave him and return to Tom and the rest of the field.
After ten minutes as fast as they can go, the fox tries the low wall of a farmyard, but the pace has been too hot for him, and he falls back right into the mouths of the pack. Having performed the funeral rites, Tom gets his orders for Hinckley, and then commence a series of disappointments. Foxes there are, for one is soon halloed away; but the hounds can make nothing of it directly they get into the open. Two or three times this happens, and it becomes evident that Mr. Hall was right in the main, and that they could not hunt that day. So at last the Master gives the word for home, for which few blame him.
As Tom rides along the road to the kennels, he tells Charles and Harry they are to be sure and say that it has been a first-class thing, and to back him up in everything he says. Naturally they both wonder whatthe old man is up to, but Tom holds his peace, and will tell them nothing, looking the while as knowing as a jackdaw who has just hidden something valuable. Evidently he has concocted some scheme, and a light begins to dawn on the two Whips when the figure of Mr. Hall is seen in the distance.
"Why, Mayster Hall, wheer an yer been to?" says Tom, as they overtake the lost one.
"Well," replies Mr. Hall, "I don't know how it was, but when I got to Kirby I found I was clean out of it. I took the wrong turn in the wood, you see. You must have dipped the hill, and the infernal wind was so high I could not hear you."
"Dear-a me, that was a pity! you missed summat good," exclaims Tom, with a sorrowful or rather pitiful expression.
Mr. Hall eagerly snaps at the bait and asks for full particulars—whether they killed? where they went? who was up? etc. etc.; all of which information the Huntsman supplies with the gravest of countenances, inventingas he goes along. Charles and Harry are nearly convulsed, and it is with the utmost difficulty that they are able to speak when appealed to by old Tom to corroborate his statements.
"By Jove, Tom, that was a good thing," says the Authority. "I said that they could only run down wind. You may always trust me about hunting. Why, its nearly nine miles straight on end! How long did you say?"
"Fifty-five minutes, weren't it, Charles?" replies Tom, appealing to the First Whip.
"Summat about there," answers Charles, turning away and muttering: "Lord forgive us, what a start!"
Mr. Hall then bids good-night to the hunt-servants, and trots home as pleased as Punch.
That evening, after Sir John has finished his dinner, his butler tells him that the Huntsman wishes to speak a word to him, and then Tom tells his master the story, and what he expected would come of it.
"He'll never forgive you, Tom, if you are right in what you think; and he's one of our best supporters," exclaimed Sir John, roaring with laughter.
"Never fear, sir, never fear. I can work round him right enow; and I'm thinking, Sir John, if so be as you will say naught, but just write up the week after to contradict the whole thing, it will give Mr. Hall a lesson. He dursn't say anything, as he knows you don't like the 'ounds wrote of, and the paper won't have no more from Mr. 'Black Hat'" (thenom de plumeof the Bullshire correspondent).
Next Saturday morning, as sure as fate, men are surprised to see a description of an extraordinary run from Ambleside, as follows:
"A Remarkably Good Day with the Bullshire."On Tuesday last this sporting pack had a wonderfully good run in a gale of wind. There was not a large muster at the meet(Brainsty cross-roads) owing to the inclemency of the weather, but those who were bold enough to face the elements had no cause to regret their temerity. The first draw was Ambleside Banks, noted throughout the country for the stoutness of its foxes; and on the day in question it fully kept up its reputation, for scarcely had that best of huntsmen, Tom Wilding, thrown his hounds into covert, than a real traveller broke away with the pack almost at his brush. Strange to say he headed straight up wind, notwithstanding that, as I have said, it was blowing a gale, and made the best of his way to Kirby village; then, turning to the right, he led them a cracking pace over the vale through Shawston to Hinckley Wood; here he was inclined to hang in covert, but the hounds would not be denied, and forced him out, when he made his point for Lyston, some three miles off. The pace had been very fast and the country very stiff, so that the field was greatly reduced, and there were manycases ofprofundit humi. Most of the first flight, however, were 'all there,' including, among others,place aux dames, Mrs. Talford, Sir John Lappington (the Master), Mr. Halston, and Mr. Bowles. About a mile from Lyston there was a short but welcome check, owing to the fox having been coursed by a sheep-dog; but Tom, by a judicious cast, hit off the line, and they were away again. Leaving Lyston on the left (Reynard having tried the earths there, and found no admittance), the line lay through Oxley, over the brook—which proved a serious obstacle to more than one sportsman—indeed, there were, as might have been expected considering the pace, more in than over. But to continue. Having run straight through the village of Oxley, this gallant fox made for Mr. Browne's farm on the hill; but, unfortunately for him, the hounds were close at his brush, and before he could reach that bourne the 'who-whoop' had sounded hisrequiem. Mr. Browne, with his usual hospitality, regaledthose who were there to see the end, and a nip of his famous ginger brandy was an offer not to be refused, especially with a long ride home in the teeth of the wind. The time from start to finish was an hour and five minutes, almost without a check, and the distance from point to point could not be less than nine miles. When this celebrated pack have another run such as that I have endeavoured to describe, may I be again there to see."Black Hat."
"A Remarkably Good Day with the Bullshire.
"On Tuesday last this sporting pack had a wonderfully good run in a gale of wind. There was not a large muster at the meet(Brainsty cross-roads) owing to the inclemency of the weather, but those who were bold enough to face the elements had no cause to regret their temerity. The first draw was Ambleside Banks, noted throughout the country for the stoutness of its foxes; and on the day in question it fully kept up its reputation, for scarcely had that best of huntsmen, Tom Wilding, thrown his hounds into covert, than a real traveller broke away with the pack almost at his brush. Strange to say he headed straight up wind, notwithstanding that, as I have said, it was blowing a gale, and made the best of his way to Kirby village; then, turning to the right, he led them a cracking pace over the vale through Shawston to Hinckley Wood; here he was inclined to hang in covert, but the hounds would not be denied, and forced him out, when he made his point for Lyston, some three miles off. The pace had been very fast and the country very stiff, so that the field was greatly reduced, and there were manycases ofprofundit humi. Most of the first flight, however, were 'all there,' including, among others,place aux dames, Mrs. Talford, Sir John Lappington (the Master), Mr. Halston, and Mr. Bowles. About a mile from Lyston there was a short but welcome check, owing to the fox having been coursed by a sheep-dog; but Tom, by a judicious cast, hit off the line, and they were away again. Leaving Lyston on the left (Reynard having tried the earths there, and found no admittance), the line lay through Oxley, over the brook—which proved a serious obstacle to more than one sportsman—indeed, there were, as might have been expected considering the pace, more in than over. But to continue. Having run straight through the village of Oxley, this gallant fox made for Mr. Browne's farm on the hill; but, unfortunately for him, the hounds were close at his brush, and before he could reach that bourne the 'who-whoop' had sounded hisrequiem. Mr. Browne, with his usual hospitality, regaledthose who were there to see the end, and a nip of his famous ginger brandy was an offer not to be refused, especially with a long ride home in the teeth of the wind. The time from start to finish was an hour and five minutes, almost without a check, and the distance from point to point could not be less than nine miles. When this celebrated pack have another run such as that I have endeavoured to describe, may I be again there to see.
"Black Hat."
"Who the deuce can have written all that farrago of nonsense?" says Mr. Boulter. "Why, we never ran more than a mile and a half." And the Secretary is not the only one who makes anxious inquiries.
Mr. Hall has been away in London, and, having only returned that morning is in blissful ignorance of the way he has been taken in.
As he arrives there is a general shout of"Here, Hall, you're an Authority; some idiot has been cooking up an account of Tuesday's sport and writing to the papers. You never read such a pack of lies in your life. We must stop this sort of thing. What should be done?"
The gentleman's feelings can be better imagined than described, and as he stammers out "I have not seen the paper," he wishes himself elsewhere.
It is noticed that that day he does not give his opinion on the whereabouts of a fox in quite such an authoritative manner, and avoids everybody as much as possible. Of course he soon hears the true account, and on the following Saturday his cup is filled when he reads under the same heading as his own—viz. "A Remarkably Good Day with the Bullshire"—
"Sir,—I beg to inform you that the account of a run on Tuesday week with these hounds, which you gave in your lastissue, was entirely fictitious, as we had no sport after the first ten minutes, the hounds being unable to hunt.—I remain yours obediently,"J. Lappington, Master B.H."
"Sir,—I beg to inform you that the account of a run on Tuesday week with these hounds, which you gave in your lastissue, was entirely fictitious, as we had no sport after the first ten minutes, the hounds being unable to hunt.—I remain yours obediently,
"J. Lappington, Master B.H."
How old Tom managed to smooth the irate individual down is not known, but nothing more ever came of it, save that "Black Hat" no longer sends accounts to the papers of sport with the Bullshire Hounds.
SevenA.M.The church clock rings out the hour in the clear still morning, and the smoke goes up straight into the air from the chimneys of the cottages of Lappington village. One by one the good dames appear at their doors with tucked-up sleeves and heads beshawled, and commence the operation of vigorously shaking strips of carpet, and generally setting things straight.
Their lords and masters have ere this gone to their work, and, with the inevitable short pipe in their mouths, are tramping along best pace to keep up a circulation and keep out the chill of the early morn.
But there is another sound which mingles itself with the chiming clock and the Babel of female voices; it is the measured "clang, clang" of iron to iron, and as one wends ones way towards that part of the village from whence it comes, the dull roar of the furnace and the sparks flying upwards tell us that we are approaching "t' smithy," and that Joe Billings and his mate are hard at work.
Presently, three of the Squires horses are seen coming up the road in their clothing, and Joe, having nearly completed the shoeing of the farm nags that had been there since half-past six, turns his attention to the wants of their more noble companions. "Two shod all round and one removed," says the groom as he comes up; "and look here, old man, don't keep us waiting no longer than you can help; it's a bit chilly this morning."
"First come first served," replies Joe; and turning to his mate: "'Ere, Bill, look out them 'unting shoes for t' Squire's 'osses. Who-ho, mare, 'old up;" and the rasp of the file againplays an accompaniment to the tune that Joe whistles as he works.
"Now then, mayster," says he to the Squire's groom as he finishes; and the hunters being brought up to the forge the anvil chorus strikes up, and the lads clap their hands as the sparks fly from the red-hot iron. More horses arrive, and grooms grumble among themselves at having to wait their turn. Some try and persuade Joe by soft words to give them precedence, others say they wish they had gone to some rival shop; but Joe pays no attention to them, merely giving vent to his favourite maxim: "First come first served."
At last one impatient youngster who does not know the Lappington Blacksmith, having only come down from London a few days before, commences to bully, and says: "Look 'ere, I ain't going to 'ave my 'osses catch their deaths of cold while you tinkers that moke," pointing to a rough pony belonging to a small market-gardener. "I'll just speak to my governor about it. I'm d——d if I'll comehere again. Gemmen's 'osses first's what I say—do'e hear, slow coach?"
Never a word answers Joe, and the bystanders smile; but the young groom loses his temper, and tries to take the "moke," as he calls it, away, and substitute his own horses.
Then Joe does look up, and dropping the foot on which he was at work, says: "My lad, you'll get yourself into trouble in a minute."
"How's that?" asks the groom.
"Why," replies Joe slowly, "if you don't drop that pony's head in two twos, I shall have to teach you manners. I ain't a quarrelsome chap, but when a whipper-snapper like you comes messing with my business it's a bit too hot. I'm blowed if I shan't have to lock you up, or put you in the pond. Drop it, will yer?" and then, as the young fool persists, he suddenly walks up to him, seizes him as he would a dog, and putting him into a shed where he keeps his old iron, turns the key, and with a chuckle resumes his work, whistling the while as gaily as ever.
Nor does he let the infuriated master of the horse out of his confinement till he has finished the quadrupeds, when, opening the door, with mock politeness, he says: "Your lordship's 'osses is done, if so be you've a mind to take 'em away."
Shouts of laughter greet the groom as he emerges from the shed, and angry as he is he has sense enough to see that the laugh is not on his side; so without a word he trots off, inwardly vowing vengeance against Joe Billings.
"There'll be a bother over this job, Joe," says Harry the Second Whip, who has come down to the forge from the kennels. "Young Cock-a-hoop will make a fine tale of it when he gets home."
"Well," replies Joe, "what can they do? If they takes the shoeing away it won't break me, and when I says a thing I means it. Them as comes first is served first, and if they don't like it they can lump it."
After finishing off with Harry, Joe slips onhis coat (such a coat too! all patched, grimy, and full of small holes burnt by the sparks), and, rolling up his leather apron, he takes himself away to see if "t' missus has got breakfust ready." Half an hour suffices for his meal, and by the time he returns he finds quite a string awaiting his arrival, and he sets to work with a will.
At last he comes to a horse shod on the French system, with the shoe let in and the frog on the ground, and he calls his mate to point it out. "Here, Bill," says he, "here's one of them Charley shoes as I was a-telling you of. Did yer ever see such a fanglement?" "Why, there ain't no bloomin' shoe at all," replies his assistant, gazing open-mouthed, and listening to Joe's lecture on the subject. "Be we to shoe 'un like that, I wonder?"
"No, no, my lad," interrupts the groom in charge; "the governor only tried it as an experiment, and he wants the 'oss shod in the usual way again."
"Proper way, you means," says Joe; "youwon't catch me a-doing an animal after that fashion, I can tell yer. Them experiments is all very well for the Mossoos, who don't 'unt, but when it comes to gitting over a country—laws, it's ridickerlous!"
By ten o'clock Joe has pretty nearly finished, except an odd job or two, such as tacking on a loose shoe for Mr. Grimes the butcher, or "fettling up" old Betty Wilson's donkey, and he has time to turn his attention to a ploughshare or a harrow that requires doctoring, or maybe the springs of Farmer Giles's tax-cart.
As he is engaged on one of these a lad runs in panting and out of breath with a message as "'ow Mr. Stiles would be main glad if Mayster Billings would step over and look at t' red coo, as 'e's afeard on 'er dropping."
"Right, my lad," says Joe; "just nip down and tell my missus to give yer my medicine-box and that bottle of stuff as stands in the winder, and then come back wi' 'em."
It may be gathered from this that Joe combines the office of cow-doctor with his other employment; and I may safely say that a better one of the old-fashioned school could hardly be found anywhere. Certainly his remedies for both cow and horse are simple to a degree. Nevertheless, he is entirely successful, and by a sort of rule of thumb dispenses medicine, of which the analysis may be peculiar, but the efficacy undoubted.
He has the greatest contempt for all veterinary surgeons, and is wont to say he "would as soon shoot the beast as let them mess any cow of his about."
Patent medicine is another of his pet aversions, and it is a sort of standing joke to ask him his opinion of "Hoplemuroma" or "Neurasthenhipponskellisterizon."
"Oh, get out. Don't come blathering me with yer hops and skillyrison!" he will say. "'Ow the deuce do I know what muck they puts into 'em? Suppose I was to call one of my oils 'Smithyjoebillingtonyeyson,' whatthe —— would old Farmer Stiles say, and what better stuff would it be for all its crack-jaw name? No, damme, call a spade a spade. None o' that new-fangled bosh for Joe Billings."
Joe has been at the smithy for some five-and-twenty years now, and though he numbers considerably over fifty years of age, is as hale and hearty a man as one would wish to see. One failing he has got which generally attacks him on Saturday nights, and that is a miscalculation as to the amount of liquor he can comfortably carry. A dangerous man is he to cross when in his cups, moreover, for his arm is as powerful as the leg of a horse, and he has besides got some knowledge of the noble art.
Indeed it is within the recollection of many a Lappingtonian how Joe at one time fought with the "Brummagem Pet" for twenty-five pounds a-side, and how, though terribly mauled, he stuck to it like a man, and, blinded as he was, managed in the sixteenth round toknock "the Pet" out of time with a terrific left-hander on the temple, shouting as he delivered the blow: "There's a taste of Bullshire for yer!"
However, it is not often that the sturdy Blacksmith gets into a row, for he would far sooner sit still and listen to an account of a good run or the records of some bygone champion of the Ring. Indeed, everything connected with sport of any kind goes straight to his soul, and that there are few sporting subjects you can mention he does not know something about is evident from the pertinent remarks he occasionally lets fall.
On a hunting-day, if the hounds are anywhere within reach, Joe may be seen at the smithy with an array of different-sized shoes ready laid out beside him, and as he works on some job in the shop he keeps one eye down the road, on the look-out for some unfortunate sportsman who has had the misfortune to get a shoe off.
It is his pride that he can tack a shoeon quicker than any man in the country. "Yer see," he says, "I 'as 'em all ready by me, and when I sees the gent a-coming, I 'ain't got no cause to look 'ere and there and heverywhere for the stuff I wants. There they are, and it's on and away in a jiff."
All the time he is asking the sportsman about the day: "What sort of a run? where he left the hounds? and where they was a-going to draw next?" And then, having received his due, he will step outside, take a look which way the wind is, and direct the thrown-out fox-hunter as to his most likely course in order to hit off the hounds again.
Odd to say, he is seldom wrong (unless, indeed, they have had a quick find, and gone away before the sportsman arrives at the indicated spot); for long experience has taught Joe all the short cuts in the country, together with which he combines an innate knowledge of the run of a fox. Old Tom Wilding the Huntsman, and Sir John Lappington the Master, are, in his opinion, the two greatest men inEngland. For, as he puts it, "Without them two where would be the 'ounds? and without the 'ounds where would my bloomin' business go to?"
Then perhaps someone will point out that he might make a better thing out of cow-doctoring; but his reply will be: "Oh, that's your opinion, is it? well; it ain't mine. Look'ee 'ere—any fool, 'cept a vetery, who's got a ounce of sense, can do a cow; but mark yer, it takes a goodish time to make a man a blacksmith; and though I say it as perhaps shouldn't, there ain't a man as I gives in to in the matter of shoeing an 'oss, no matter where he comes from. No, as long as I can use my arm" (and he bares a limb that would not disgrace a statue of Hercules), "and there's any wind in the old bellows, I sticks to t' smithy. Blacksmith I was bred, and so I'll die; and all I wants is, when our ould parson 'as finished the reading over my grave, to 'ave a plain bit of a 'eadstone put up, with simple 'Joe Billings, the Lappington Blacksmith,' wrote on it;" andthen Joe will turn to and whistle a lively air, just to get the idea of his demise out of his head, and the bystanders will say among themselves that at present they can't spare old Joe, who has for five-and-twenty years made the sparks fly and rung out the anvil chorus in the smithy at Lappington.
There is no better-known individual in the whole of the Bullshire Hunt perhaps than Jack Whistler the Runner, or, as is he more commonly called, "Jumping Jack." His antecedents are somewhat obscure, and various contradictory stories are told as to who he is and what he was; but his presence at the end of a long run, or in any spot where he thinks he may have the chance of earning an honest shilling, is a positive certainty.
How he manages to turn up at the right moment is only another of the mysteries which surround him; but the fact remains the same,that Jack has solved the problem of "how to be in two places at once" most satisfactorily. No matter how long the day has been, or how many miles he has to go back to the place where he is supposed to have his home, the next day you will see him at the meet as fresh as paint, in his old pink-and-brown leather gaiters, with the same keen eye and half-saucy smile on his face as he doffs his well-worn velvet cap at your approach.
Full of quaint humour is Jack, with many a story of sport, and many a reminiscence of flood and field, which he delights in relating to anyone he can get to listen to him.
"Ger on with yer," he will say to a crowd of gaping rustics; "ger on with yer—call last Wednesday's a run? Why, bless yer, I remember in the old Squire's time, when we run from Finchley cross-roads to Ipply Gorse, better nor five-and-twenty mile, and old Mayster Simpson got up to his neck in the brook, and I stood on the bank fit to bust mysen with larfin, and wouldna pull un outunder two half-crowns. Ah! them was days, I can tell yer."
And then, some mounted cavalier arriving, off goes the hunting-cap, and he accosts the sportsman with "Morning, captin'; fine scenting day; hold your horse? thankee, sir," all in one breath.
Not a hound in the pack but what knows him and is glad to see him; and he can call them all by name, and give you their pedigree without a mistake. As old Tom says: "Where he picks up his knowledge Lord knows, but 'e's never wrong, and, by Guy, 'e's a puzzler to be sure."
It is getting near the end of the season, and the weather is just a trifle warm, as old Tom with the hounds overtakes Jack Whistler making his way towards the meet at Fairleigh. There is a breakfast there, and Jack likes to be in time on those occasions, for he knows that he will earn many a sixpence before the actual work begins, besides getting his day's food and drink gratis.
"Holloa, old man, what have yer got there? going a-fishing?" exclaims Tom as he comes up with the pedestrian. "What's that thing for?" pointing to a light pole that Jack is balancing on his shoulder.
"Fishing be blowed," is the reply, "it's my jumper. Don't yer see it's a bit 'ot, and old Riley" (a fellow-runner in a neighbouring pack) "put me up to the tip last week as ever was. He says, says he: 'Why don't yer have a pole made? it ain't much to carry, and you can get over hanythink with it.' So I've had this fettled up, and I've been practising a bit with it, and I can go fine now I can tell yer."
"Oh, that's it, is it?" says Tom. "Well, I should a thought it were more trouble than it were worth carrying a great fishing-rod of a thing like that about."
"Ger out," retorts Jack; "it ain't nothing when yer used to it. I thought it were a new-fangled notion at first, and I came nigh breaking my neck two or three times over a pigsty wall afore I got into it; but look'ee 'ere, it's aseasy as shelling peas;" and Jack proceeds to show Tom his prowess in the noble art of saltation.
Taking a short run, with a "Ger back, hounds," he essays to top the fence out of the road; but, alas, to the intense amusement of Tom and the two Whips, his pole sinks into some soft ground, and poor Jack falls all of a heap into the wet ditch on the far side, uttering the while exclamations the reverse of complimentary against the treacherous friend of his travels that had so basely betrayed him.
When he appears, scratched and muddy, in the road again, as soon as Tom can stop laughing he advises him to "leave the bloomin' pole where it is, and not go cutting any more capers of that sort." But Jack's dander is up, and his only reply is to shoulder his weapon and walk on. Presently they arrive at the fixture, and Mr. Whistler's hands are quite full. Indeed, what between laying in a cargo for himself and looking after horses while theirowners do the like, he has not much time to talk.
Then comes the business of altering stirrups, tightening girths, and looking after his tips. A marvellous memory does Jack show in this latter respect. Vain indeed is it to try and put on an air of unconcern at his approach, as if you had never seen him before, or as if you had entirely forgotten the service he rendered you when you got that spill last week, and he recovered your horse for you on the promise of half-a-crown.
Jack remembers the circumstance well and the promise better, and he will sidle up to you with a smile, and say: "Morning cap'n. None the worse for the fall? Have not seen yer out since. Hope you won't forget Jack;" and then, having received his recompense, his quick eye catches sight of another debtor, and with a "Thank'ee kindly, sir," he is off to collect more dues.
What he likes best is being taken as a pilot by some comparative stranger to thecountry, whose heart is not placed in that position requisite to enable him to follow the hounds or ride straight. Then he is in his glory, and from his knowledge of the highways and byways he invariably manages to nick in at various points, and eventually brings his craft safely into port without any casualties.
Of course for this he expects something handsome, and though he makes no bargain he has got a way of returning thanks for any gift he deems insufficient that shows plainly enough his opinion, and generally extracts something in addition. To-day, by the time the hounds move off, Jack has made quite a haul, for, being near the end of the season, men have "remembered the Runner." He is in high feather, and what between pleasure and the effects of the old ale, he is a little unsteady and more garrulous than usual.
"Wheer to, Mayster Wilding?" he asks Tom, as he shoulders his pole and swings it in close proximity to the Huntsman's head.
"Mind what you're a-doin' of, a-poking a fellow's eye out with that thing. We're a goin' to draw the gorse first, but you'd better leave that blessed article behind, or you'll be killing somebody," retorts Tom, riding off, while Jack, with a laugh, swings off best pace towards the first draw, and as soon as he arrives at the gorse places himself in a commanding position to await the turn of events.
Just as the hounds are thrown in there is a bit of commotion down at the other end, and a loose horse galloping past tells the tale of a misfortune. Away goes Jack in hot chase, and manages to catch the riderless steed in a trice. When he returns he finds it is Mr. Betteridge, who, having trusted himself on a new purchase, has been fain to dismount rather more hurriedly than he intended. However, no bones are broken, and Jack, having added another bit of silver to his day's earnings, betakes himself to where he had left his pole.
It is a quick find, and the fox breaks close by Mr. Whistler, who, as soon as he sees himwell away, gives vent to his feelings in a somewhat beery view holloa, and then proceeds to follow as fast as he can. At the bottom of the meadow, below the gorse, runs a broadish brook, and a good many turn away for the road and bridge which spans the obstacle. On any other occasion Jack would have done the same, but his failure in the road and old Tom's laughter still rankles in his bosom, and as he runs down towards the water he clutches his pole and says to himself: "I'll show some on 'em as I ain't a-going to be second. I'll pound a few on 'em I'll bet. I do 'ope that old beggar Tom 'ull get a wet jacket."
As the hounds dash in and feather about on the other side, Tom and the hard-riders pull up to see which way the line lies and whether the fox is over or not. But Jack does not stop a moment, and with an exultant shout of "Come on, gents, what are yer waiting for?" he jumps as far as he can, and, holding his pole in a slanting position, plunges it in to aid him in his journey over the water.
The pole touches the bottom and then sinks into about two feet of mud, leaving Jack suspended in mid-air. A momentary pause, and with a "Rot the thing!" the Runner disappears from view beneath the waters of the brook, emerging on the other side half drowned and covered with black slime, while the instrument of his misfortune remains erect in the middle.
"Ithoughtyou was a-going fishing," says Tom with a chuckle; as he lands safe by the side of Jack, and then as he passes him to get to the hounds: "You'd better take a few lessons from your pal Riley afore you try again."
The rest of the spectators are nearly in a state of collapse with laughter, both at the pitiable sight Jack presents as well as at the murderous glances he casts at the pole; but hounds are running and there is no time to lose, so the chase sweeps past and he is left alone in his misery to make the best of his way home. As soon as Jack has scrapedhimself a bit clean and wrung out his coat, he feels carefully in his pockets to see if all his gains are safe; and finding everything right in that respect he brightens up, and leaving his pole where it is, moves off at a brisk jog-trot to the nearest public todrythe outer andwetthe inner man.
When next he appears at the door he shows evident signs that he has accomplished the latter part of his purpose, for his course is anything but straight, and after taking nearly an hour to do half a mile he manages to stagger into a barn, where in a few moments he is "wrapt in sweet slumber."
He is not, however, likely to take any harm from the proceeding, for he is used to the sort of sleeping-place, and will turn out next morning—a little red about the eyes perhaps—but ready to go any distance with the hounds, and, what is more, equally ready for some more of the "hair of the dog that bit him."
Passionately fond of hounds and hunting,he enjoys life thoroughly during the winter, and lives on the fat of the land; but when what he calls the "stinking violets and primroses" appear, things are not so pleasant. "Othello's occupation gone," he has to fall back on odd jobs and an occasional half-a-crown from Sir John or some of his friends, and, failing these, may be generally found "at home" at the "red house," maybe better known as the "workus."
Vagabond he is, and vagabond he will remain. Nevertheless, there is many a man who would be sorry to hear of anything serious happening to Jack Whistler the Bullshire Runner.
The greatest friend or enemy of John Pillings could hardly accuse him of being either an over-sociable or too-genial individual. In fact, he has earned throughout the length and breadth of the county the nickname of "Ould Sulky," and is perhaps better known by that sobriquet than by the more lawful patronymic bestowed upon him by his parents and his godfather and godmother at his baptism.
This being the case, it may fairly be said that Pillings has at last settled down into his proper place, and is one of the few instances of the "round man in a round hole."He has not always been at the toll-gate; on the contrary, his life has been somewhat varied, and he has experienced a good many of the ups and downs of the world.
He began by being "bound 'prentice" to a carpenter, but his temper was against him, and so when his time was up he took to the more active life of a sailor.
Here again his enemy found him out, and he said good-bye to his shipmates without much sorrow on their part. "'Bout as much use a-talking tohimas a marlinspike. Mate yer calls him! Nasty sulky beggar! In everybody's mess and nobody's watch," was the general verdict of the men; so it was no wonder they were glad to see him go over the side.
For the second time Mr. Pillings was in want of a job, and on this occasion he took to butchering, which he thought might be more likely to agree with his temperament. But in about two months he quarrelled with his master, and after they had had it out inthe slaughter-house Pillings found himself once more in the world with three half-crowns in his pocket, about ten pounds at the bank, and a pair of as beautiful black eyes as one would wish to see, to say nothing of a nose three times its proper size, and a good many teeth very shaky.
When he had got his countenance back to its pristine beauty he tried his hand at The Red Cow as barman, and, strange to say, he managed to get on in this capacity very well.
The Red Cow, it must be known, is an inn much frequented by the knights of the pencil, so that Pillings, by keeping his ears open, and by a few judicious investments, soon managed to make a nice little nest-egg for himself; and having fallen a victim to the charms of the chambermaid, he offered to share his fortune with her.
Unfortunately for him the lady was "willing," and in a few months became Mrs. P., and shortly afterwards a mother.
The landlord of The Red Cow, on finding it out, was exceeding wroth, and sent John and his spouse packing instanter, which, as may be supposed, did not improve the man's temper or conduce to the domestic happiness of his wife.
After various ups and downs too numerous to enter into, to make a long story short, John Pillings, through the interest of a "friend at court," found himself installed at the gate-house, with nothing to do but open the gate, take the toll, and occasionally vary the monotony of existence by getting tipsy and belabouring his spouse. The latter event has become more frequent of late years, as, unlike the generality of things, the older he gets thetighterhe gets, and often people are surprised to find the gate open and no one to take the money, "Old Sulky" being drunk in bed, and his wife having taken refuge with a neighbour until her husband is all right again.
When he is not in a hopeless conditionhe is as smart as needs be, and a very 'cute man indeed it would have to be who could manage to evade the toll while the Man at the Gate was on the look-out.
What Pillings likes best is, on a market morning to keep the gate shut, and then when the farmers come hurrying up and shout: "Now then, gate; hi! gate," he will turn out, look up and down the road, and go slowly up to the tax-cart, or whatever the indignant individual may be in, and say "Toll."
"Hang you; open the gate, and look sharp," is the probable reply, as the money is handed down.
"Sha'n't go no quicker; ain't paid no more for looking sharp. If ye'r in such a bloomin' hurry, open it yerself," says Pillings, as he slowly unfastens the bolt and swings the gate back, laughing to himself as the farmers, pouring imprecations on his head, dash through.
More than once has "Ould Sulky" been the object of such delicate attentions as havinghis door nailed up, and twice has the toll-gate been lifted off its hinges and carried bodily into the next parish. A very short time ago a few adventurous spirits, coming home from the market-town and finding the toll-gate open, stormed the gate-house, where Pillings was lying dead-drunk upstairs, and lifting him into their trap they carried him off to the nearest pound, where, having borrowed a wheelbarrow, they left him for the night; and the next morning the people of the village were astonished to see the keeper of the tollbar reposing,à laPickwick, "drunk in a wheelbarrow."
John Pillings was perfectly furious, and did all he could to find out with the aid of the police who the offenders were; but the matter coming to the ears of Sir John Lappington in his capacity as chairman of the bench of magistrates, he thought it best to give "Ould Sulky" a timely hint that, unless he reformed, he would find himself again onthe world, and also recommended him strongly to give up searching for his abductors.
Perhaps the Master's brother, Harold Lappington, having been the prime mover in the freak, had as much to do with this sage counsel as Sir John's magisterial capacity; but no matter how that is, suffice it that Pillings dropped the subject like a hot potato, and fell back on his own thoughts for comfort.
He says now: "I'll be even with them scamps some day, or my name ain't Pillings. As soon as ever I finds out—and find 'em I will, police or no police—I'll smash 'em; you see."
Old Tom and the Master he holds in great dread, and looks up to them with as much veneration as his nature is capable of feeling. But for the common herd,aliasthe field, he has no respect, and often makes himself exceedingly unpleasant to boot. If the hounds happen to run his way, and the macadam brigade come galloping down the road, "OuldSulky" is out in a jiff, and bang goes the gate, while he stands in front and utters the monosyllabic "Toll."
"Oh, all right, open the gate, the last man will pay," shouts someone.
"You'll only go through one at a time, and you'll each pay, or I'll know the reason why. I've never found that last cove 'as any money along with him," retaliates Pillings; and there he will stand taking each man's money and fumbling about for the change, till all the luckless ones are through and the hounds are well out of sight and hearing.
Then "Sulky" will retire to his den with a chuckle and put away the money, muttering to himself: "Last chap 'ull pay! Likely as I'm going to be took in a that 'uns. Don't fancy they'll see much of t' hounds again anyhow."
Of course if Sir John or Tom happens to be there Pillings is civility itself, and there is no question of first or last, for he knows it would not do, and that if he were to play those sort of pranks with the Master his place would not beworth an hour's purchase. As it is, he is often hard put to it to find an excuse for his behaviour; but he somehow manages to escape by the skin of his teeth, and from constant repetition his performances are looked upon as a regular institution in the county.
It is, however, whispered abroad that another year will see a different face at the gate, for even the most conservative of mortals is apt to tire of John's rudeness, and so they are only waiting a favourable opportunity in order to get rid of him altogether.
They have repeatedly tried to have the turnpike removed from the road, and have pointed out the inconvenience and annoyance of the thing; but hitherto their efforts have been of no avail, so now they have given it up as a bad job, and have banded themselves together to catch out the principal cause of the nuisance. If they are successful, and Pillings is again out of employment, it will be a difficult matter with him to find bread for himself and wife, for it is extremelydoubtful whether anyone in Bullshire would care to have so morose and drunken a servant about their premises.
Perhaps after a month or two in the workhouse, he may turn over a new leaf and so get some berth; but under existing circumstances, as old Tom told him one day, if he loses his place he will have either to starve or let himself out as a scarecrow at so much a-day. Therefore, for his own sake, it is to be hoped next season he will improve his manners, and so remain in the only position for which he is suited—to wit, the Man at the Toll-bar.
A bright warm morning in April, with just enough keenness in the air to make one say to oneself: "There's a chance of a scent this morning."
A day on which that peculiar freshness of the new-born spring seems to pervade everything. The buds on the roadside hedges, wet with a passing shower, sparkle and glint in the sunshine, and the grass on the banks is green and moist.
Even old Tom feels the effect of the glorious day, though he does anathematise the "stinking violets" as he rides to the closing meet at Fallow Field, and wonders"'ow in the name of all that's merciful t' hounds can work in cover with the 'nation primroses a-coming out."
Still, he knows well that there has been such a thing before now as a real "buster" in April, and he looks approvingly on the surroundings, and mutters to himself that, "If t' sun wunna come out too strong, they may be able to do summat arter all."
As the hounds move jauntily along, it is evident to the merest tyro that their condition is as nearly perfect as can be, and that the wear and tear of the past season has had but little effect on them. Indeed Tom is quite ready to go on the whole year round if it were possible; and as Harry rides after Belldame, whose spirits have got the better of her discipline (an old hare in the hedgerow having proved irresistible), he says: "Let t' ould bitch alone, Harry; 'er won't 'ave another chance this year, more's the pity; they mun do as they're a-mind to-day—till wa cum to business at all events."
So Belldame saves her bacon, and the old hare having got clean off, she returns to her place looking somewhat crestfallen.
Everybody in the country is at Fallow Field—men on horses of all sorts, shapes, and sizes. Even a donkey carries a living freight for the day, and is transformed into a "perfect fencer." Vehicles of every description are drawn up at the trysting-place, from the mail-phaeton and pair of steppers to the more humble conveyance of the costermonger.
Those who can find nothing whereon they may ride are fain to turn out afoot, but turn out they do in scores; and no wonder, for in a country like Bullshire, where every man, woman, and child have the spirit of sport strong upon them, each one is bound to see the last day of the season, and if they cannot all hope to be in at the death, still they can see the hounds find and go away, which is more than half the battle, and will give food for conversation for many a week afterwards.
Of course all our old friends are there.The Parson and Doctor ride up together, and receive quite an ovation from the foot-people; then shortly afterwards the popular Secretary arrives, and causes the usual commotion among the gentlemen in arrears with their subscriptions.
The Simmses have joined old Tom and the hounds on the road, and their advent is the signal for a ringing cheer, which is quickly suppressed when Sir John is seen cantering up with Harold, Mrs. Talford, and the Colonel; the Major, with a heap more, bringing up the rear.
Of course the Major has a deal of fault to find with everything, as usual; and, equally of course, the Boaster is spinning a yarn of his own prowess, and endeavouring to impress Mr. Betteridge with the idea that he is the only man of the hunt who has gone straight during the season.
Jack the Runner is making a good haul, and, were he provident, might be able to lay by a little store to help through the summer;but, as we know, he is exactly the reverse, and whatever he earns to-day will be clean gone by the end of the week, if not before.
"Well, Tom," says the Parson, from the middle of the pack (he has dismounted, and is surrounded by his favourites), "I suppose you won't be sorry to give the horn a bit of rest, eh? What say you, Minstrel?" turning to the old hound.
"Sorry, Master Halston; I shanna know what to do wi' mysen till wa begin cubbing. It's allas the same, and t' hounds feel it just like I," replies Tom. "But never mind," he continues with a smile, "if so be as you'll gie us a sermon now and again about fox-'unting, I make no doubt we shall do."
"Well, Tom, I should be puzzled for a text, I think," rejoins the Parson; "perhaps you will find one for me."
At which remark the bystanders smile, for old Tom is not a very regular attendant; but the smile breaks into a loud peal of laughter when the Huntsman retaliates as quick asthought by saying: "Ay, I wull; you wunna have far to look. You can take for the first Sunday, 'Many dogs a-cum about me;' and then for the next week, as a wind-up, you can give us 'The fat bulls of Bashan,' and say what a murdering nuisance they was a-crossing the line." And with a "Coop, coom away, hounds," he rides away, having scored one most emphatically.
At this juncture Sir John, having pulled out his watch, gives the signal, and away they trot to the first draw, which unfortunately proves a blank, as does the next, whereat Tom's soul waxeth wroth, and for five minutes the vengeance of the gods is called down on the "stinking violets," and other articles which in his opinion militate against the scent.
The third essay seems likely for a long time to be as unproductive as the two former, when suddenly a whimper from Ranter, backed up by Harbinger, sends a thrill through the veins of the eager field.
Tom is all life in a moment, and his "'Ave at 'im. Eugh, 'ave at 'im! Eugh, boys!" rings out clear and shrill.
Not so shrill, though, as Charles's "Tally-ho! gone awa-a-y! awa-a-a-y!" which comes pealing through the trees from the bottom end, while the pack, catching it up, ring out a chorus that would waken the dead.
"Hounds, please, hounds! Hold hard, gentlemen!" roars Sir John to some of the too enthusiastic fire-eaters as they gallop down the squashy ride, vainly endeavouring to get ahead of Tom, who, with white hair flying in the breeze, is vigorously cheering his hounds on to the line, occasionally giving them a chink of music to dance to.
At last the wood is cleared, and the pack are streaming over the grass. Nearly everybody has got a good start, and each man, knowing it is his last day, rides his best.
Mrs. Talford, as usual, is going along to the fore, second to none; and Mr. Halston is determined that if the "fat bulls" do crossthe line, he at all events will be well enough up to note the exact spot where the catastrophe occurred.
Falls are plentiful, for the pace is hot, and the weather being of the same temperature, horses are soon, as Tom says, "all a muck o' sweat," and find the fencing no light matter.
However, "For'ard on" they race, and for five-and-thirty minutes without a check, till they throw up suddenly by a thick ivy-grown hedge.
"By Guy," says Tom, as he makes his cast and mops his face with a large red silk bandana, "by Guy, it's warm, and no mistak'." Then after a bit, as the hounds seem quite at sea: "Dashed if the varmint 'ain't melted."
Not quite. He has only run the hedge right along the top of the ivy till he came to the cross-fence, and then jumping down has set his head straight for Woodborough; and Minstrel, casting on his own account, hits off the spot where he landed on terra-firma, andin loud tones proclaims it to the world in general and his companions in particular.
At it again they are in a crack, and the welcome check having allowed a chance of getting "second wind," the field are all well up and as merry as crickets. Soon, however, the pace begins to tell, and the "tailing" is terrible; as they go on each successive ditch holds a victim, and the flyers of the hunt are all forced to take a pull.
The best of the horses are beginning to sob, and old Tom has serious misgivings about having to finish the run afoot. But it's a long lane that has no turning, and two fields ahead the fox is seen crawling along dead beat. The hounds run from scent to view, then comes a last final rush.
A confused mass, a worry, and then Tom's "Who-whoop! who-whoop!" is heard a mile back, and tells those struggling in the wake that the gallant pack have run into their fox, and that the Bullshire hounds havefinished their season with a rattling run ending in a kill.
As the word "Home" is given by Sir John, and old Tom rides off amid the congratulations of all who have managed to get to the end, he casts a look of pride at his darlings clustered round him, and mutters: "Ay, bad luck to it; it's 'Who-whoop' till next season."