Chapter LV: The Council of War.—poor Puss Again!

WHILE the ladies were absent adorning themselves, the gentlemen
held a council of war as to the most advisable mode of dealing
with the hare, aud the best way of making her face a good
country. The Major thought if they could set her a-going with her
head towards Martinfield-heath, they would stand a good chance of
a run; while Broadfurrow feared Borrowdale brook would be in the
way.

“Why not Linacres?” asked Mr. Rintoul, who preferred having the
hounds over any one’s farm but his own.

“Linacres is not a bad line,” assented the Major thoughtfully;
“Linacres is not a bad line, ‘specially if she keeps clear of
Minsterfield-wood and Dowland preserve; but if once she gets to
the preserve it’s all U. P., for we should have as many hares as
hounds in five minutes, to say nothing of Mr. Grumbleton reading
the riot act among us to boot.”

“I’ll tell ye how to do, then,” interposed fat Mr. Nettlefold,
holding his coat laps behind him as he protruded his great
canary-coloured stomach into the ring; “I’ll tell you how to do,
then. Just crack her away back over this way, and see if you
can’t get her for Witherton and Longworth. Don’t you mind,”
continued he, button-holeing the Major, “what a hunt we had aboot
eighteen years since with a har we put off old Tommy Carman’s
stubble, that took us reet away over Marbury Plot, the Oakley
hill, and then reet down into Woodbury Yale, where we killed?”

“To be sure I do!” exclaimed the delighted Major, his keen eyes
glistening with pleasure at the recollection. “The day Sam
Snowball rode into Gallowfield bog and came out as black as a
sweep—I remember it well. Don’t think I ever saw a better thing.
If it had been a—a—certain somebody’s hounds (_he, he, he!_),
whose name I won’t mention (_haw, haw, haw!_), we should never
have heard the last of it (_he, he, he!_).”

While this interesting discussion was going on, old Wotherspoon
who had been fumbling at the lock of the cellaret, at length got
it open, and producing therefrom one of those little square
fibre-protected bottles, with mysterious seals and hieroglyphical
labels, the particoloured letters leaning different ways, now
advanced, gold-dotted liquor-glass in hand, towards the group,
muttering as he came, “Major Yammerton, will you ‘blege me with
your ‘pinion of this Maraschino di Zara, which my wine merchants
recommend to me as something very ‘tickler,” pouring out a glass
as he spoke, and presenting it to his distinguished guest.

“With all my heart,” replied the Major, who rather liked a glass
of liquor; adding, “we’ll all give our opinion, won’t we,
Pringle?” appealing to our hero.

“Much pleasure,” replied Billy, who didn’t exactly know what it
was, but still was willing to take it on trust.

“That’s right,” rejoined old Spoon; “that’s right; then ‘blege
me,” continued he, “by helping yourselves to glasses from the
sideboard,” nodding towards a golden dotted brood clustering
about a similarly adorned glass jug like chickens around a
speckled hen.

At this intimation a move was made to the point; and all being
duly provided with glasses, the luscious beverage flowed into
each in succession, producing hearty smacks of the lips, and
“very goods” from all.

“Well, I think so,” replied the self-satisfied old dandy; “I
think so,” repeated he, replenishing his nose with a good pinch
of snuff; “Comes from Steinberger and Leoville, of King Street,
Saint Jeames’s—very old ‘quaintance of mine—great house in the
days of George the Fourth of festive memory. And, by the way,
that reminds me,” continued he, after a long-drawn respiration,
“that I have forgotten a toast that I feel (pause) we ought to
have drunk, and—”

“Let’s have it now then,” interrupted the Major, presenting his
glass for a second helping.

“If you please,” replied “Wotherspoon, thus cut short in his
oration, proceeding to replenish the glasses, but with more
moderate quantities than before.

“Well, now what’s your toast?” demanded the Major, anxious to be
off.

“The toast I was about to propose—or rather, the toast I forgot
to propose,” proceeded the old twaddler, slowly and deliberately,
with divers intermediate sniffs and snuffs, “was a toast that I
feel ‘sured will come ‘ome to the ‘arts and symphonies of us all,
being no less a—a—(pause) toast than the toast of the illustrious
(pause), exalted—I may say, independent—I mean Prince—Royal
Highness in fact—who (wheeze) is about to enter into the holy
state of matrimony with our own beloved and exalted Princess
(Hear, hear, hear). I therefore beg to (pause) propose that we
drink the ‘ealth of His Royal (pause) ‘Ighness Prince (pause)
Frederick (snuff) William (wheeze) Nicholas (sniff) Charles!”
with which correct enunciation the old boy brightened up and
drank off his glass with the air of a man who has made a clean
breast of it.

“Drink both their ‘ealths!” exclaimed the Major, holding up his
glass, and condensing the toast into “The ‘ealths of their Royal
Highnesses!” it was accepted by the company with great applause.

Just as the last of the glasses was drained, and the lip-smacking
guests were preparing to restore them to the sideboard, a slight
rustle was heard at the door, which opening gently, a smart black
velvet bonnet trimmed with cerise-coloured velvet and leaves, and
broad cerise-coloured ribbons, piloted Mrs. Wotherspoon’s pretty
face past the post, who announced that Mrs. Broadfurrow and she
were ready to go whenever they were.

“Let’s be going, then,” exclaimed Major Yammerton, hurrying to
the sideboard and setting down his glass. “How shall it be, then?
How shall it be?” appealing to the company. “Give them a view or
put her away quietly?—give them a view or put her away quietly?”

“Oh, put her away quietly,” responded Mr. Broadfurrow, who had
seen many hares lost by noise and hurry at starting.

“With her ‘ead towards Martinfield?” asked the Major.

“If you can manage it,” replied Broadfurrow, well knowing that
these sort of feats are much easier planned than performed.

“‘Spose we let Mrs. Wotherspoon put her away for us,” now
suggested Mr. Rintonl.

“By all means!” rejoined the delighted Major; “by all means! She
knows the spot, and will conduct us to it. Mrs. Wotherspoon,”
continued he, stumping up to her as she now stood waiting in the
little passage, “allow me to have the honour of offering you my
arm;” so saying, the Major presented it to her, observing
confidentially as they passed on to the now open front door, “I
feel as if we were going to have a clipper!” lowering the ominous
hat-string as he spoke.

“Solomon! Solomon!” cried he, to the patient huntsman, who had
been waiting all this time with the hounds. “We are going! we are
going!”

“Yes, Major,” replied Solomon, with a respectful touch of his
cap.

“Now for it!” cried the Major, wheeling sharp round with his fair
charge, and treading on old Wotherspoon’s gouty foot, who was
following too closely behind with Mrs. Broadfurrow on his arm,
causing the old cock to catch up his leg and spin round on the
other, thus splitting the treacherous cords across the knee.

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“_Oh-o-o-o!_” shrieked he, wrinkling his face up like a Norfolk
biffin, and hopping about as if he was dancing a hornpipe.

“_Oh-o-o-o!_” went he again, on setting it down to try if he
could stand.

“I really beg you ten thousand pardons!” now exclaimed the
disconcerted Major, endeavouring to pacify him. “I really beg you
ten thousand pardons; but I thought you were ever so far behind.”

“So did I, I’m sure,” assented Mrs. Wotherspoon.

“You’re such a gay young chap, and step so smartly, you’d tread
on any body’s heels,” observed the Major jocularly.

“Well, but it was a pincher, I assure you,” observed Wotherspoon,
still screwing up his mouth.

At length he got his foot down again, and the assault party was
reformed, the Major and Mrs. Wotherspoon again leading, old Spoon
limping along at a more respectful distance with Mrs.
Broadfurrow, while the gentlemen brought up the rear with the
general body of pedestrians, who now deserted Solomon and the
hounds in order to see poor puss started from her form. Solomon
was to keep out of sight until she was put away.

Passing through the little American blighted orchard, and what
Spoon magnificently called his kitchen garden, consisting of a
dozen grass-grown gooseberry bushes, and about as many winter
cabbages, they came upon a partially-ploughed fallow, with a most
promising crop of conch grass upon the unturned part, the hungry
soil looking as if it would hardly return the seed.

“Fine country! fine country!” muttered the Major, looking around
on the sun-bright landscape, and thinking he could master it
whichever way the hare went. Up Sandywell Lane for Martinfield
Moor, past Woodrow Grange for Linacres, and through Farmer
Fulton’s fold-yard for Witherton.

Oh, yes, he could do it; and make a very good show out of sight
of the ladies.

“Now, where have you her? where have you her?” whispered he,
squeezing Mrs. Wotherspoon’s plump arm to attract her attention,
at the same time not to startle the hare.

“O, in the next field,” whispered she, “in the next field,”
nodding towards a drab-coloured pasture in which a couple of lean
and dirty cows were travelling about in search of a bite. They
then proceeded towards it.

The gallant Major having opened the ricketty gate that intervened
between the fallow and it, again adopted his fair charge, and
proceeded stealthily along the high ground by the ragged hedge on
the right, looking back and holding up his hand for silence among
the followers.

At length Mrs. Wotherspoon stopped. “There, you see,” said she,
nodding towards a piece of rough, briary ground, on a sunny
slope, in the far corner of the field.

“I see!” gasped the delighted Major; “I see!” repeated he, “just
the very place for a hare to be in—wonder there’s not one there
always. Now,” continued he, drawing his fair charge a little
back, “we’ll see if we can’t circumvent her, and get her to go to
the west. Rintoul!” continued he, putting his hand before his
mouth to prevent the sound of what he said being wafted to the
hare. “Rintoul! you’ve got a whip—you go below and crack her away
over the hill, that’s a good feller, and we’ll see if we can’t
have something worthy of com-mem-mo-ration”—the Major thinking
how he would stretch out the run for the newspapers—eight miles
in forty minutes, an hour and twenty with only one check—or
something of that sort.

The pause thrilled through the field, and caused our friend Billy
to feel rather uncomfortable, he didn’t appreciate the beauties
of the thing.

Rintoul having now got to his point, and prepared his heavy
whip-thong, the gallant band advanced, in semicircular order,
until they came within a few paces of where the briars began. At
a signal from the Major they all hailed. The excitement was then
intense.

“I see her!” now whispered the Major into Mrs. Wotherspoon’s ear.
“I see her!” repeated he, squeezing her arm, and pointing
inwardly with his thong-gathered whip.

Mrs. Wotherspoon’s wandering eyes showed that she did not
participate in the view.

“Don’t you see the tuft of fern just below the thick red-berried
rose bush a little to the left here?” asked the Major; “where the
rushes die out?”

Mrs. Wotherspoon nodded assent.

“Well, then, she’s just under the broken piece of fern that lies
bending this way. You can see her ears moving at this moment.”

Mrs. Wotherspoon’s eyes brightened as she saw a twinkling
something.

“_Now then, put her away!_” said the Major gaily.

“She won’t bite, will she?” whispered Mrs. Wotherspoon,
pretending alarm.

“Oh, bite, no!” laughed the Major; “hares don’t bite—not pretty
women at least,” whispered he. “Here take my whip and give her a
touch behind,” handing it to her as he spoke.

Mrs. Wotherspoon having then gathered up her violet-coloured
velvet dress a little, in order as well to escape the frays of
the sharp-toothed brambles as to show her gay red and black
striped petticoat below, now advanced cautiously into the rough
sea, stepping carefully over this tussuck and t’other, avoiding
this briar and that, until she came within whip reach of the
fern. She then paused, and looked back with the eyes of England
upon her.

“_Up with her!”_ cried the excitcd Major, as anxious for a view
as if he had never seen a hare in his life.

Mrs. Wotherspoon then advanced half a step farther, and
protruding the Major’s whip among the rustling fern, out
sprang—what does the reader think?—A GREAT TOM CAT!

“_Tallyho!_” cried Billy Pringle, deceived by the colour.

“_Hoop, hoop, hoop!_” went old Spoon, taking for granted it was a
hare.

_Crack!_ resounded Rintoul’s whip from afar.

“_Haw, haw, haw!_ never saw anything like that!” roared the
Major, holding his sides.

“Why, it’s a cat!” exclaimed the now enlightened Mrs.
Wotherspoon, opening wide her pretty eyes as she retraced her
steps towards where he stood.

“Cat, ay, to be sure, my dear! why, it’s your own, isn’t it?”
demanded our gallant Master.

“No; ours is a grey—that’s a tabby,” replied she, returning him
his whip.

“Grey or tab, it’s a cat,” replied the Major, eyeing puss
climbing up a much-lopped ash-tree in the next hedge.

“Why, Spoon, old boy, don’t you know a cat when you see her?”
demanded he, as his chagrined host now came pottering towards
them.

“I thought it was a hare, ‘pon honour, as we say in the Lords,”
replied the old buck, bowing and consoling himself with a copious
pinch of snuff.

“Well, it’s a sell,” said the Major, thinking what a day he had
lost.

“D-a-a-vilish likely place for a hare,” continued old
Wotherspoon, reconnoitring it through his double eye-glasses;
“D-a-a-vilish likely place, indeed.”

“Oh, likely enough,” muttered the Major, with a chuck of his
chin, “likely enough,—only it isn’t one, _that’s all!_”

“Well, I wish it had been,” replied the old boy.

“So do I,” simpered his handsome wife, drawing her fine
lace-fringed kerchief across her lips.

The expectations of the day being thus disappointed, another
council of war was now held, as to the best way of retrieving the
misfortune. Wotherspoon, who was another instance of the truth of
the observation, that a man who is never exactly sober is never
quite drunk, was inclined to get back to the bottle. “Better get
back to the house,” said he, “and talk matters quietly over
before the fire;” adding, with a full replenishment of snuff up
his nose, “I’ve got a batch of uncommonly fine Geisenheimer that
I would like your ‘pinion of, Major,” but the Major, who had had
wine enough, and wanted to work it off with a run, refused to
listen to the tempter, intimating, in a whisper to Mrs. Spoon,
who again hung on his arm, that her husband would be much better
of a gallop.

And Mrs. Wotherspoon, thinking from the haziness of the old
gentleman’s voice, and the sapient twinkling of his gooseberry
eyes, that he had had quite enough wine, seconded this view of
the matter; whereupon, after much backing and bowing, and shaking
of hands, and showing of teeth, the ladies and gentlemen parted,
the former to the fire, the latter to the field, where the
performance of the pack must stand adjourned for another chapter.