Chapter IV: Preface (4)

"Peas, my dear fellow; no, by gad," will be the ready reply. "They are the hats I have come to grief in. I keep them for old lang syne. In that one on the right I rode the famous Willowfield run. Fourteen falls, and finished up in the Swill. On my honour, I thought I never should have got out. Horse got on the top of me, and I was under water for a minute;" and then, taking down the other three in succession, Story will relate the romance attached to each.

Ill-natured slander says that their present shape is attributable to having been violently sat upon in the garden after two days' rain, and the authority of a discharged valet, who remonstrated on this wholesale destruction of his perquisites, is given. But then there is nothing that ill-natured slander will not say.

One good point about the Boaster is that he is a most stanch preserver of foxes, and although his property is not a large one, Lappington is always perfectly certain of finding in his coverts. It is a great-day for him when the hounds meet in the village. No general commanding a division feels half such a great man as Mr. Story, who, having confidentially informed Sir John that there are no less than five foxes in the wood, takes charge of Tom and the pack and leads them on to victory.

Should they not find immediately, the various stages of anxiety depicted on his face are intensely amusing, and the triumphant "I-told-you-so" expression he assumes when at last the swelling chorus proclaims the varmint at home, is well worth coming any distance to see.

No sooner are they well away than the highroad claims him for its own, and, followed by a small detachment, Story's figure is seen vanishing through the toll-gate, making for some distant point which he seems to know by intuition the fox is bound for. His knowledge of the country and the lanes thereof is wonderful, and having, by slipping down a byway, shaken off his retinue, he arrives on the high ground just as the fox crosses the bottom and crawls into Watson's osiers.

The hounds are not yet in sight though he can hear them in the distance, so he has time to let himself into the field through the gate, and inspect the low wattle fence at the far end, over which he knows the line will be. Finding it is very plain sailing, and that there is a most convenient gap again into the lane which leads direct to the osiers, he gets behind a haystack, and waits the arrival of Tom and the pack. Most men would holloa the fox, but Story knows a trick worth two of that. He has a reputation to keep up, and a history to tell of "those big rails by Brown's farm," and "that double after we came out of the water-meadows," which would hardly sound so well if he was known to have arrived at his present position in front of the hounds.

Presently the hounds come up, and he notes with glee that there are but four or five anywhere near them. As they top the wattle he dashes round the haystack as if he had ridden all the way wide on their left, and flying the fence is in the same field with them--alone.

"Dang 'im, how did ay get theer? Ay never rode along wi' us, I know," mutters Tom to himself; but the pace is too hot to think about it at the moment.

"Capital run, Tom," shouts Story, as they gallop down the field together; "but, my eye, what a stiff bit we have had! Those rails of Brown's were a stopper. You should have had them where I did, on the left." (Tom had been deuced nearly down there, a circumstance Story had noticed from the road.) "He'll be in the osiers; I'll get on and view him out the far side;" and away goes our friend through the gap and down the lane.

"Now, I should just like to know wheer in the name of fortun' ay's coom from. There's some hanky-panky, I knows. Did you see Mayster Story, Charles?" says Tom, as they check, to the First Whip, who has just arrived, his coat showing pretty evident signs of where he had been.

"Saw him going down the road when we found; but Craftsman has it," replies Charles, and "For'ard on" is again the order.

Into the osiers they crash, and a "Tally-ho!" from Story on the far side shows them to be close behind their fox. "For'ard, for'ard, for'ard away," screams Tom, blowing the hounds out of the covert; and in the second field it is all up, and Tom is off his horse in the middle of the pack, with Story and five others only there to see. As the remainder of the field gallop up by twos and threes our friend takes his watch out, and, addressing the Master, says: "Best thing I've seen for many a day--fifty-three minutes with hardly a check. 'Pon my honour, it's marvellous that so few of us came to grief. Awful stiff country. Give you my word, I thought I should break my neck every fence."

"Could not afford to lose such a sportsman as you, Story," replies Sir John, laughing and turning to Tom. "Here, give Mr. Story the brush; it's worthy of a place in his den."

"Right, sir," says Tom; but he winks at Charles and whispers: "There'll be a fine tale over this one, I'll lay."

Story is dining out that night, so he does not accompany them to find their second fox, but by the time the ladies have come into the drawing-room and the chairs are drawn round the fire, the fifty-three minutes have grown to an hour and twenty minutes, and the deeds of daring performed by himself have increased in proportion. As he drives home he turns it over in his own mind whether another hat and peg shall not be added to the relics between the window, with the glorious history of "the crumpler over Brown's rails" attached thereto. But he eventually decides, as so many of the field saw him at the finish with his headpiece in its normal condition, that perhaps on the whole it would be better not.

This, however, does not prevent him from entering a full and true (?) account of the run to Watson's osiers in his hunting-diary, and executing a small yet carefully-drawn map of the country, with crosses marked thereon denoting the locality of some of the terrific obstacles he encountered--and negotiated in safety.

Should the conversation turn on hunting (which it is pretty certain to do) while smoking the post-prandial cigar in Story's sanctum, he will read a few extracts from this diary, which the assembled guests may believe or not--as they like.

HODGE.

"Which is the way to Langley, my good man?" asks Mr. Tyrol of a countryman he overtakes on his way to the meet. Mr. Tyrol, who is a stranger to the Bullshire, and has come down just to look at the country and see what it is like with a view to future operations, as yet does not know his way about, so is glad of any information he can obtain as to the most direct route.

"Yew mun tak furst turnin to right till yer com' to smithy, then keep straight on past Jack Spender's down t' green lane, but mind yer dunna mistake t' road past ould Betty Wilson's cottage, and then you're sure to be right," replies the man, with a glance at his interlocutor.

"Thanks," says Mr. Tyrol, not much the wiser. "Let me see. I've got to go down to the green lane, and then past Mrs. Wilson's cottage; but how am I to know which is the right cottage--and how far it is?"

"Oh, any chap 'ull tell yer ould Betty's place; it's better nor six mile if yer go one way and under four if yer tak t' other."

"And which is the short way?" is Mr. T.'s next question.

"Well," replies his director, "yew mun go as I've tould yer, till yer come t' lane, then turn into field past the works. Yer know the works maybe?" and on Mr. Tyrol confessing his ignorance, after a pause: "Ah, that maks a 'nation difference, doan't it?"

The fact is not for a moment to be disputed, and Mr. Tyrol is in despair, when suddenly a bright idea strikes Hodge, and he looks up, saying: "Perhaps you're a-going fox-'unting?"

As it is not customary for people to ride about in pink, save in civic processions, unless they are "on sport intent," it becomes hardly necessary to answer, and Mr. T. wonders what Hodge could possibly have thought he was going to do.

"If so be," however, continues the pedestrian, "I'm a-going t' meet mysen, and I can show yer t' road. Can that 'oss jump? Acos we've got to go through Farmer Danby's meaders, and 'e most allus locks his gates."

Notwithstanding the chance of a locked gate and a nasty fence in cold blood, Mr. Tyrol thinks it an opportunity not to be lost, and gladly avails himself of the proffered guidance, while Hodge sees a prospective shilling in the horizon, which, with great accuracy, he divides as he tramps along into "three pots o' four."

"And what sort of a country is Langley?" asks the directee of his guide and director, after about a quarter of a mile passed in silence.

"Foine country for turnips," is the reply. "I mind when Mr. Arles--you knows him I'll be bound? Not know Mr. Arles! Why I thought everyone know'd him, he's the biggest man about these parts; he was the Dook's agent. Well, I mind when he got better nor----"

Here Mr. Tyrol thinks it advisable to check the flow of Hodge's conversation, as he sees plainly that unless he does so he will be in for an agricultural dissertation on the producing power per acre of Mr. Arles' land, so he cuts him short with "I don't mean that; I mean what sort of a country is it to ride over? Stiff big fences, or what?"

"Some big, some littel; but there's allus a road as you can git along if so be as you don't care about leping; and there's any amount o' foxes--swarms on 'em. Why, it was only last week as ould Jim tould me as Bill Upton 'ad tould him as he see'd two when he wor working in Squire Beale's plantation. But there's Langley, sir. Thank ye kindly." And Hodge, the richer by a shilling, stops at the wayside public-house to drink the stranger's health.

Happy in having arrived at his destination, and much instructed and amused by what he had heard, Mr. Tyrol rides on to where old Tom and the hounds are visible, and is soon lost to sight in the crowd of horses and men at the meet. By the time he has done contemplating the hounds, Hodge has finished his libation, and, in company with a "mate," comes on the scene of action.

"Mornin', mayster," says he to old Tom; "whear be you a-going furst?" and on hearing that Collingly Wood will be the first draw, he turns to his companion and says: "By Guy, mate, we mun look slippy or we shanna be there in time."

It is not every day in the week that these "horny-handed sons of toil" get an outing, and they do not mean to lose their chance of seeing the fun if they can help it. So away they go, followed by three or four boys, towards the big wood seen in the distance. They have not gone far before they discover that they have followers, and knowing well that with these in their wake it will be impossible to secrete themselves in an advantageous position, they turn round and deliver a few home-truths, which, though not particularly elegant, answer the purpose, and have the desired effect of getting rid of the boys. This done, they continue their route till they arrive at the hunting-gate leading into the covert.

"Now I wonder which end t' ould mon will begin at?" asks the elder of his companion.

"I dunna knoa," replies Number Two, putting his finger into his mouth and holding it up; "but from the way o' the wind I should say as 'e'll start down here; bound to go up-wind."

No fool in matters of sport is Hodge, and, chawbacon as you may call him, you would find it hard to puzzle him on the subject of the "run of a fox," always provided he understood your questions. Old Tom knows his value well, and over and over again have things been put straight by the far-seeing blue eye; and "'E's gone yonder by th' ould barn," or "I'v seed 'im cross o'er bottom," has enabled the Huntsman to hit off the line without wasting the precious moments in a long and speculative cast.

The two "mates" have barely ensconced themselves comfortably on the top of a stack of "cordwood," from whence they can command more than half the wood, when the pack arrive, and the horsemen, as they file through the gateway, are subjected to a running fire of criticism. Woe betide the man whose animal obstinately refuses some small fence within sight of Hodge and Co. Although the rider will not hear the speech, the loud laugh from one or the other tells him plainly enough that he is the cause of their merriment, and he wishes himself--or them--farther away. As soon as the hounds are thrown in the occupants of the cordwood stack become excited, and the younger of them, our friend of the road, suggests an adjournment to a tree where he thinks a better view can be obtained.

"Stop where yer be, Jim," says the elder; "yer canna do better, and if yer gets messing about now you'll only have t' Master and old Tom atop o' yer back." So Jim is persuaded, and remains quiet. Presently a yellow body is seen stealing through the underwood, and the chorus of music shows that the hounds are aware of Mr. Reynard's presence.

"There 'e goes," whispers Jim, "and here they come. By Guy, the're away," as the hounds dash through the covert, and a loud "Tally-ho" is heard on the other side. To slip down is the work of an instant, and both Jim and his companion are making the best of their way to the corner where the fox has broken. Here they find a regular crush; the hunting-gate is locked or jammed, and no one can get out. Threading their way through the horses, however, with the help of a good heave, a strong heave, and a heave both together, the pair manage to have the gate off its hinges, and the impatient field rush through, nearly overturning Jim in their mad career.

"Oh, go on, go on," says that worthy, as he jumps out of the way; "some on yer won't go much farther than the first fence at that pace."

And he is right.

There are two or three loose horses running about, one of which he manages to catch and restore to the owner, receiving in return a small acknowledgment, which--having submitted to the universal test, his teeth--he slips into the pocket of his brown corduroys.

The next field is a stiffish plough, and by the time he is halfway across Hodge is done, and he finds his heavy boots none the lighter for three or four inches of wet clay adhering to the soles. However, the sight of a friendly hayrick in the distance consoles him, and to his great delight he sees a ladder is reared against it and a man at work cutting out some trusses.

"Can yer see ought on 'em, ould man?" he pants, as he reaches the foot of the ladder, and the "ould man" from his coign of vantage, shouts back: "Nip up, lad, nip up, the're a-going like billy o'." Jim is quickly alongside, his face beaming with excitement as he sees the whole panorama of the chase stretched out before him. As he watches, he notices his friend of the morning--Mr. Tyrol--and points him out to the man on the rick. Luck favouring the spectators, the hounds suddenly swing sharp round and cross close beneath and within hearing. There is a nasty fence over which the line lies, and a goodish few turn away for the gate, but Mr. Tyrol heads straight for it with the rest of the hard-riders.

"Well done, sir; well done!" roars Hodge from the rick, and Mr. T., recognising him, gives him a nod as he rides at the fence. His horse, however, jumps short, and the result is a rattling fall.

"Laws, that's a buster," says Jim; "I mun go and help him, he gied me a bob;" showing by his words the triumph of filthy lucre over Christian charity. Not that he would not have been just as ready to pick up anyone without the shilling, but the gift had made a profound impression, and the thought that was uppermost found vent in words.

By the time he reaches the spot Mr. Tyrol has picked himself up, and, catching his horse, is away; and Hodge returns to the rick to see the last he can of the receding chase.

As he trudges homewards he hears various accounts of how "the hounds are been by," etc., and lighting his pipe he makes his way towards his own particular inn where he usually takes his glass.

He is going along leisurely over the fields when he hears a loud voice behind him, and turning round, finds himself face to face with two men on horseback, one of whom is ordering him to "Open that gate there, do you hear?" Hodge knows in a moment that he is not a Bullshire man; and what is more, he recognises in an equally short space that he is not a gentleman for all his pink coat and fine feathers, and his native pride rebels; so he takes no notice, but turns round and continues his journey, and getting over the stile with a laugh, he mutters to himself: "'E's got some cheek an' all, d----n him; I shanna open gate unless 'e's a bit more civil."

"Here, you fellah, do you hear--open this gate, will you?" shouts the angry _parvenu_ again, and then commences a course of good solid abuse.

This is more than even Hodge can stand, so he slowly faces round again and says: "Jump o'er it or get off and open it yerself. I ain't paid ter go about t' country helping the likes o' you home."

When he tells the story in the public-house, as tell it he will, after recounting all he saw of the chase and a bit more besides, he will say: "I knowed he wanna out of Bullshire. None of our gents are like that; sum City chap maybe, 'ain't larned manners;" and while spending the rest of the eighteen-pence he has earned out hunting he is as happy as a king, with whom he would not change places for the world, much preferring, so long as he can get occasionally a day off and plenty to eat and drink, to remain as simple--Hodge.

THE KEEPER.

One of the richest men in the county of Bullshire next to "the Dook" is a Mr. Betteridge, a retired partner of the well-known firm of Betteridge, Woolsey, and Co., of Manchester, who about five years back purchased the Medemere estate, which originally belonged to the Slowboy family. Of course he immediately improved (?) the fine old Elizabethan hall by adding thereto sundry wings and towers, and also converting the old-fashioned gardens, with their quaint yew-edges, into trim parterres and terraces, after what he was pleased to call "the Italian style."

He has two great objects in life, in both of which unfortunately he appears bound to be frustrated. The first is to be what is known as "a popular sportsman," and the second to be considered somebody of importance.

With regard to number one--beyond having made a gorse and keeping the most expensive cattle, which, needless to say, he cannot ride himself--his ideas are limited; while, in the second instance, he has a deadly rival, before whom he sinks into insignificance, and whose word he has learnt to look on as law.

This individual is neither more nor less than his Head-keeper, "Mr. James," who (in his own estimation) combines all the virtues under the sun, and speaks in the most grandiloquent way of "our shooting," "our woods," "our coverts," "our foxes," "our parties," and "our" Heaven knows what. Mr. James will inform you that he is a most ardent fox-hunter, that it is "our pride always to have foxes for Sir John. In fact, I told Mr. Betteridge that it must be when we first agreed on the shooting," etc.

Yet, strange to say, there is a scarcity of the commodity in the Medemere Woods that does not tally with these high-sounding assertions. Certainly the gorse generally contains one or two, but that is quite on the outsides, and near nothing in the pheasant interest. Betteridge himself would pay anything, do anything (except adopt the only proper method), to have foxes, and has many a time and oft remonstrated with "Mr. James" on the subject. But he is invariably snubbed and subdued by this mighty potentate, and made to wish he had not spoken.

It is unfortunate that "Mr. James" should have lived, before he condescended to "assist" Mr. Betteridge, with the Earl of Upcroft, for the "Hearl" is his great rallying-point; and whenever there is anything that his present employer does not quite like, and ventures to suggest alterations upon, it is always:

"When I lived with the 'Hearl' we never did in no way different to what we are a-doing now, and the 'Hearl,' he used to say as how, thanks to me--'I puts it all down to you, James,' was his very words--'heverything works just like clockwork.' Of course if so be as you wants it different, why it can be done, but depend hon it the 'Hearl' knowed what was what."

After this "Cottonopolis" has nothing to say, and James and the "Hearl" carry it.

Give him his due as a Keeper, he is excellent; for getting up a head of game his equal is not to be found, nor can his method of beating the covers or showing his birds be surpassed. But in his heart, notwithstanding his outward professions, he is a vulpecide, and his satellites are too well trained and hold him in too much awe to say anything.

Sir John Lappington distrusts him; indeed, he has gone so far as to speak to Betteridge on the subject, and old Tom is perfectly convinced on the point; but James and his "Hearl" have hitherto been more than they can manage.

Last season things very nearly came to a climax, for after drawing Mr. Betteridge's coverts blank three times running, Sir John vowed he would not come there again. Mr. James was most profuse in his apologies, and his astonishment was grand.

"I'm sure," said he, "I can't imagine where them foxes has got to. Bill saw two in the big wood last night, and I've been most pertickerler about it. Bill tells me as he knows of another in the Cross Spinney. Didn't yer, Bill? Where's Bill?" (That worthy having carefully slipped out of sight on the first signs of a cross-examination.) "Ah! 'e's never here when he's wanted," continued the great man. "Tom, I'm thinking you must have drawed over 'em."

"More than I'm thinking you've done," returned old Tom; adding, _sotto voce_, "nasty deceitful beggar."

"Well, Mr. Betteridge," said Sir John after a pause, and with his eye fixed on "Mr. James," "it's a great pity, but I think I must be to blame to a certain extent. I ought to have brought out some different hounds. I must get some truffle-dogs if I come here again. It seems our only chance of finding foxes, and I daresay your Keeper is right and we have drawn over them."

The shouts of laughter that followed this speech made it clear to both master and man that there was some sarcasm, but neither of them could make out quite what it was--until the evening, when Mr. James, happening to meet the village schoolmaster, asked him what Sir John meant by truffle-dogs, and was informed that they were a peculiar breed that found things underground.

The joke went round the village in a trice, and Mr. James is still known as "Truffles," though it is not quite safe to call him so to his face.

For more than half the season the Master kept his word, and the hounds never came near Medemere. But at last a piteous appeal from Mr. Betteridge is listened to, and "Monday, Medemere Hall," appears in the paper.

Such a turn-out! A breakfast, more than half of it down from Gunter's; powdered footmen rushing about in everybody's way; footmen out of powder doing the same thing; a butler, whose busy appearance is worth a hundred a-year to him, superintending the champagne, which flowed freely; and over all Mr. Betteridge, flushed, excited, and uncomfortable.

Outside is the same profusion, and Mr. James and his army of retainers dispense good cheer with a liberal hand. No fear has he to-day, for Bill has actual and _bonâ-fide_ knowledge of a fox in the osiers, and to make quite certain, a small box from Leadenhall Market came down two days before, and the contents have been shaken out in the big wood.

Under the circumstances he can afford to pass by Tom's remark of "Hope you haven't stopped no foxes in to-day" in silence, merely saying: "I think we had better draw our Osiers first, if Sir John is agreeable. I have told Mr. Betteridge that would be the first draw."

"Oh, you have, have yer?--that was kind of you," says Tom; and turning to the Whip: "Charles, put those hounds to me; they might go and injure Mr. James's flower-beds."

What the result of this speech, which of course raised a laugh, might have been it is hard to say, for at this moment out comes the Master and Mr. Betteridge, followed by the rest of the field. Mr. James takes off his hat with a low bow, and says: "Beg pardon, Sir John, I was a just saying to the Huntsman that we'd better try the Hosiers first. Bill knows of a fox there."

"I hope he does this time, James," replies Sir John; "but I am going to draw the big wood, and then the Osiers."

"Very good, Sir John; of course you knows best," remarks Mr. James, and then hurries off, thinking how deuced lucky it is that he had a bagman down on the chance.

When they arrive at the bottom of the wood they find the great man standing at the gate full of importance, and with an air of self-satisfaction on his face. "I'm sure there's summut up, sir," says old Tom to Sir John, as the hounds dash into cover. "He'd never look so 'nation pleased if there was not some roguery in the wind. Eleu, in; eleu, at him; eugh, boys. Bagman, maybe. Eleu, try." A tally-ho from the far side before the hounds have opened on the line cuts him short, and with a "Danged if I don't think I'm right," the old Huntsman, blowing his horn, gallops down the ride to where the holloa was heard. The hounds do not settle on the line kindly, in fact, the old hounds will scarcely own it; however, they get along somehow for about a quarter of an hour, when poor bagman's race is run and they pull him down.

"Who-whoop," yells Tom; "who-whoop, and if that don't make yer ashamed of yourself nothin' will; I know'd he were a bagman--dang the cheek of the man."

Not a hound will touch him, not even the young entry, and Sir John is perfectly furious.

"Mr. Betteridge," he says; as that worthy appears, quite innocent and highly delighted at there being a fox at all. "Mr. Betteridge, I came here at your request to draw your covers; I came here on your assurance that there were foxes; and you, sir, have the audacity to turn out a stinking bagman in front of my hounds."

"My dear Sir John," replied the unfortunate man, "I never should dream of doing such a thing; my Keeper told me there were foxes; but I never would have turned out a bagman, I assure you. How can you tell it is a bag fox?"

"I believe, Mr. Betteridge, you are innocent, and I apologise," says Sir John after a pause. "You ask me how I know. Look there at the hounds, they know well enough. Frankly, I tell you that unless you arrange matters with your Keeper James, who is the author of this, I will not draw your covers again, nor will I take your subscription to the hounds;" and then, turning to Tom, "try the Osiers, and if that's blank, trot off to Lappington."

Mr. Betteridge is quite flabbergasted, and in the first flush of the thing vows vengeance against the Keeper, but this cools down considerably before they get to the osiers, and he begins to turn over in his mind what the "Hearl" would have done. Mr. James is ignorant of the little scene that has been enacted, so meets the hounds at the Osiers, and, touching his hat to Sir John, with a smile says: "Killed him, sir? You'll find another here."

He is somewhat astonished, therefore, when he is told that if he dare do such a thing again he as likely as not will get his discharge, and if Mr. Betteridge can't be persuaded to do that he is still more likely to get a good thrashing for his impertinence.

"Dang your ugly mug," says Tom to him, as soon as Sir John is out of hearing; "you thought to come the clever over me and t' hounds, did yer? Ugh, they'd no more eat a bag fox than they'd touch your dirty overgrown carcass. I'd like to gi' yer what for, big as yer are;" and then the hounds crash over into the witheys, and Tom begins to draw. From the way they dash there is no doubt of a good fox this time, and presently a whimper from Bonnibel strikes the key-note. Up and down the Osiers twice he goes, with the pack close at him, and then away. No. One of the Keeper's satellites, and under-Velveteens, heads him, and he sneaks back along the wet ditch, while the hounds flash into the grass-field.

"Tall'o baik," screams Charles, who has seen it. "Will you take yourself away from there?" and Velveteens removes himself and feels humble.

One more round, and then he does go, and sets his head straight for Colliston, a grand line, grass the whole way. The first fifty minutes is racing pace, and the grief over the big fences plentiful. Four or five minutes are lost in a small pit-hole by a farm, where the fox had tried an earth, and then they are away again, rolling him over in the open twenty minutes later.

"A real good thing," is the unanimous verdict, and the Master is only too glad to tell Mr. Betteridge, when he arrives (which he does after all has been over some time) that the present animal makes up for the morning's performance, whereat the heart of "Cottonopolis" is made joyful again.

As they ride together to the next draw--Colliston Gorse--Mr. Betteridge begs Sir John to come and dine with him that night quite alone, and to help him to interview Mr. James. Sir John, foreseeing a good result, accepts, and after dinner, at which meal Mr. Betteridge hears some good wholesome truths, Mr. James is sent for.

Directly he appears and sees Sir John he knows it is all up, and that the "Hearl" will not serve him a bit; and his heart fails when Sir John commences by saying: "Your master has left the matter on which we have sent for you entirely in my hands." Then, after keeping him on tenter-hooks for a quarter of an hour, and turning the man inside out, he relieves him by saying: "The fox from the Osiers saved you, but Mr. Betteridge has given his word of honour that the next time the hounds come here and there are no foxes--wild ones I mean--that day is your last with him, and you go--without a character."

Mr. James, humbled and apologetic, commences a long string of protestations and assurances of amendment, but is cut short by "That will do; go and act, don't talk." Betteridge thinks the Master the most wonderful man, and cannot make out how he braved Mr. James and the "Hearl" so cleverly; but he is awfully grateful, and being a man of his word it is to be hoped that in future there will be foxes at Medemere, and that he will no longer be under the thumb of--the Keeper.

THE AUTHORITY.

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.

Hall _père_ is 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 afflicted with a weakness for seeing his lucubrations in print.

Mrs. Hall, on the other hand, affects the evangelical rôle, and is forever establishing _crèches_, 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 be appreciated, 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 that Mr. 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 not be 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 going to 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 getting late, 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 what the 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, inventing as 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'" (the _nom de plume_ of 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 many cases of
_profundit 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 his _requiem_. Mr. Browne, with
his usual hospitality, regaled those 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 last issue, 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.

THE BLACKSMITH.

Seven A.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 again plays 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 come here 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 on his 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."