Chapter XXXVII: Two Accounts of a Run; Or, Look on This Picture

MONSIEUR Jean Rougier having seen the field get small by degrees,
if not beautifully less, and having viewed the quivering at the
brook, thinking the entertainment over, now dismounted from his
wooden steed, and, giving it a crack with his stick, saying it
was about as good as his first one, proceeded to perform that
sorry exploit of retracing his steps through the country on foot.
Thanks to the influence of civilisation, there is never much
difficulty now in finding a road; and, Monsieur was soon in one
whose grassy hoof-marked sides showed it had been ridden down in
chase. Walking in scarlet is never a very becoming proceeding;
but, walking in such a scarlet as Jack had on, coupled with such
a cap, procured him but little respect from the country people,
who took him for one of those scarlet runners now so common with
hounds. One man (a hedger) in answer to his question, “If he had
seen his horse?” replied, after a good stare—“Nor—nor nobody
else;” thinking that the steed was all imaginary, and Jack was
wanting to show off: another said, “Coom, coom, that ill not de;
you’ve ne horse.” Altogether, Monsieur did not get much
politeness from anyone; so he stumped moodily along, venting his
spleen as he went.

The first thing that attracted his attention was his own
pumped-out steed, standing with its snaffle-rein thrown over a
gate-post; and Jack, having had about enough pedestrian exercise,
especially considering that he was walking in his own boots, now
gladly availed himself of the lately discarded mount.

“Wooay, ye great grunting brute!” exclaimed he, going up with an
air of ownership, taking the rein off the post, and climbing on.

He had scarcely got well under way, ere a clattering of horses’
hoofs behind him, attracted his attention; and, looking back, he
saw the Collington Woods detachment careering along in the usual
wild, staring, _which-way? which-way?_ sort of style of men, who
have been riding to points, and have lost the hounds. In the
midst of the flight was his master, on the now woe-begone bay;
who came coughing, and cutting, and hammer and pincering along,
in a very ominous sort of way. Billy, on the other hand,
flattered himself that they were having a very tremendous run,
with very little risk, and he was disposed to take every
advantage of his horse, by way of increasing its apparent
severity, thinking it would be a fine thing to tell his Mamma how
he had got through his horse. Monsieur having replied to their
_which ways?_ with the comfortable assurance “that they need not
trouble themselves any further, the hounds being miles and miles
away,” there was visible satisfaction on the faces of some; while
others, more knowing, attempted to conceal their delight by
lip-curling exclamations of “What a bore!”

“Thought _you_ knew the country, Brown.” “Never follow you again,
Smith,” and so on. They then began asking for the publics.
“Where’s the Red Lion?”

“Does anybody know the way to the Barley Mow?”

“How far is it to the Dog and Duck at Westpool?”

“Dat oss of yours sall not be quite vell, I tink, sare,” observed
Jack to his master, after listening to one of its ominous coughs.

“Oh, yes he is, only a little lazy,” replied Billy, giving him a
refresher, as well with the whip on his shoulder, as with the
spur on his side.

“He is feeble, I should say, sare,” continued Jack, eyeing him
pottering along.

“What should I give him, then?” asked Billy, thinking there might
be something in what Jack said.

“I sud say a leetle gin vod be de best ting for im,” replied
Jack.

“Gin! but where can I get gin here?” asked Billy.

“Dese gentlemens is asking their vays to de Poblic ouses,”
replied Jack; “and if you follows dem, you vill laud at some tap
before long.”

Jack was right. Balmey Zephyr, as they call Billy West, the
surgeon of Hackthorn, who had joined the hunt quite promiscuous,
is leading the way to the Red Lion, and the cavalcade is
presently before the well-frequented door; one man calling for
Purl, another Ale, a third for Porter; while others hank their
horses on to the crook at the door, while they go in to make
themselves comfortable. Jack dismounting, and giving his horse in
charge of his master, entered the little way-side hostelry; and,
asking for a measure of gin, and a bottle of water, he drinks off
the gin, and then proceeds to rinse Billy’s horse’s mouth out
with the water, just as a training-groom rinses a horse’s after a
race.

“Dat vill do,” at length said Jack, chucking the horse’s head up
in the air, as if he gets him to swallow the last drop of the
precious beverage. “Dat vill do,” repeated he, adding, “he vill
now carry you ome like a larkspur.” So saying, Jack handed the
bottle back through the window, and, paying the charge, remounted
his steed, kissing his hand, and _bon-jouring_ the party, as he
set off with his master in search of Pangburn Park.

Neither of them being great hands at finding their way about a
country, they made sundry bad hits, and superfluous deviations,
and just reached Pangburn Park as Sir Moses and Co. came
triumphantly down Rossington hill, flourishing the brush that had
given them a splendid fifty minutes (ten off for exaggeration)
without a check, over the cream of their country, bringing
Imperial John, Gameboy Green, and the flower of the
Featherbedfordshire hunt, to the most abject and unmitigated
grief.

“Oh, such a run!” exclaimed Sir Moses, throwing out his paws.
“Oh, such a run! Finest run that ever was seen! Sort of run, that
if old Thorne (meaning Lord Ladythorne) had had, he’d have talked
about it for a year.” Sir Moses then descended to particulars,
describing the heads up and sterns down work to the brook, the
Imperial catastrophe which he dwelt upon with great _goût_, dom’d
if he didn’t; and how, leaving John in the water, they went away
over Rillington Marsh, at a pace that was perfectly appalling,
every field choking off some of those Featherbedfordshireites,
who came out thinking to cut them all down; then up Tewey Hill,
nearly to the crow trees, swinging down again into the vale by
Billy Mill, skirting Laureston Plantations, and over those
splendid pastures of Arlingford, where there was a momentary
check, owing to some coursers, who ought to be hung, dom’d if
they shouldn’t. “This,” continued Sir Moses, “let in some of the
laggers, Dickey among the number; but we were speedily away
again; and, passing a little to the west of Pickering Park,
through the decoy, and away over Larkington Rise, shot down to
the Farthing-pie House, where that great Owl, Gameboy Green,
thinking to show off, rode at an impracticable fence, and got a
cropper for his pains, nearly knocking the poor little Damper
into the middle of the week after next by crossing him. Well,
from there he made for the main earths in Purdoe Banks, where, of
course, there was no shelter for him; and, breaking at the east
end of the dene, he set his head straight for Brace well Woods,
good two miles off (one and a quarter, say); but his strength
failing him over Winterflood Heath, we ran from scent to view, in
the finest, openest manner imaginable,—dom’d if we didn’t,”
concluded Sir Moses, having talked himself out of breath.

The same evening, just as Oliver Armstrong was shutting up day by
trimming and lighting the oil-lamp at the Lockingford toll-bar,
which stands within a few yards from where the apparently
well-behaved little stream of Long Brawlingford brook divides the
far-famed Hit-im and Hold-im shire from Featherbedfordshire, a
pair of desperately mud-stained cords below a black coat and
vest, reined up behind a well wrapped and buttoned-up gentleman
in a buggy, who chanced to be passing, and drew forth the usual
inquiry of “What sport?”

The questioner was no less a personage than Mr. Easylease, Lord
Ladythorne’s agent—we beg pardon, Commissioner—and Mr. Gameboy
Green, the tenant in possession of the soiled cords, recognising
the voice in spite of the wraps, thus replied—

“Oh, Mr. Easylease it’s you, sir, is it? Hope you’re well, sir,”
with a sort of move of his hat—not a take off, nor yet a keep
on—“hope Mrs. Easylease is quite well, and the young ladies.”

“Quite well, thank you; hope Mrs. G.‘s the same. What sport have
you had?” added the Commissioner, without waiting for an answer
to the inquiry about the ladies.

“Sport!” repeated Gameboy, drawing his breath, as he conned the
matter hastily over. “Sport!” recollecting he was as good as
addressing the Earl himself—master of hounds—favours past—hopes
for future, and so on. “Well,” said he, seeing his line; “We’ve
had a nice-ish run—a fair-ish day—five and twenty minutes, or
so.”

“Fast?” asked Mr. Easylease, twirling his gig-whip about, for he
was going to Tantivy Castle in the morning, and thought he might
as well have something to talk about beside the weather.

“Middlin’—nothin’ partieklar,” replied Green, with a chuck of the
chin.

“Kill?” asked the Commissioner, continuing the laconics.

“Don’t know,” replied the naughty Green, who knew full well they
had; for he had seen them run into their fox as he stood on
Dinglebank Hill; and, moreover, had ridden part of the way home
with Tommy Heslop, who had a pad.

“Why, you’ve been down!” exclaimed the Commissioner, starting
round at the unwonted announcement of Gameboy Green, the best man
of their hunt, not knowing if they had killed.

“Down, aye,” repeated Gameboy, looking at his soiled side, which
looked as if he had been at a sculptor’s, having a mud cast taken
of himself. “I’m indebted to the nasty little jealous Damper for
that.”

“The Damper!” exclaimed the Commissioner, knowing how the Earl
hated him. “The Damper! that little rascally draper’s always
doing something wrong. How did he manage it?”

“Just charged me as I was taking a fence,” replied Green, “and
knocked me clean over.”

“What a shame!” exclaimed the Commissioner, driving on. “What a
shame,” repeated he, whipping his horse into a trot.

And as he proceeded, he presently fell in with Dr. Pillerton, to
whom he related how infamously the Hit-im and Hold-im shire chaps
had used poor Green, breaking three of his ribs, and nearly
knocking his eye out. And Dr. Pillerton, ever anxious, &c., told
D’Orsay Davis, the great we of the Featherbedfordshire Gazette,
who forthwith penned such an article on fox-hunting Jealousy,
generally, and Hit-im and Hold-im shire Jealousy in particular,
as caused Sir Moses to declare he’d horsewhip him the first time
he caught him,—“dom’d if he wouldn’t.”