Chapter V: Preface (5)

"Proper way, you means," says Joe; "you won'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,' what the ---- 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 to knock "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 shoe on 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 in England. 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;" and then 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.

THE RUNNER.

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 out under 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 pract_is_ing 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 as easy 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 their owners 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 the country, 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 him well 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.

"I _thought_ you 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 scraped himself 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 to _dry_ the outer and _wet_ the 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 MAN AT THE TOLL-BAR.

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 to _him_ as 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 in the 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 the _tighter_ he 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 condition he 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 having his 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 la_ Pickwick, "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 on the 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, _alias_ the 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, "Ould Sulky" 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 be worth 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 extremely doubtful 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.

WHO-WHOOP!

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 as thought 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 cross the 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, and in 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 have finished 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."

THE FIRST OF THE SEASON.

Old friends are all meeting and gathered together
In batches, discussing the crops and the weather;
It has been a hard struggle for some with the rent,
But their troubles grow light as the talk turns on scent.

The landlord and tenant, the farmer and squire,
Have all had to suffer and pocket their ire,
At the sun's fitful gleam and the rain's ceaseless pour;
But they meet in good fellowship round the inn-door.

Their thoughts are all bent upon horses and hounds,
For shortly the covert will echo with sounds,
As the eager pack top the wood-fence with a crash,
The young entry all bustle and brimful of dash.

Now see to your girths if you mean to be there.
Old Tom looks like business; his hand's in the air.
A whimper--a chorus--hark, holloa! they've found,
And his old mare pops over the rails with a bound.

Away fling that weed, catch your horse by the head,
He's young, and he's hot, but he's clean thoroughbred;
Don't rush at the timber or else you'll be down.
Let him see what's before him--he'll jump o'er a town.

They are over the brook, which is bankful, I swear;
See, yonder they go with their sterns in the air.
There's young Flyaway in, and, by Jove, what a cropper!
Ah, the others won't have it--I thought 'twas a stopper.

Thank goodness, they're checked by that herd of Scotch kine.
But, hark for'ard, old Minstrel has hit off the line.
There'll be "bellows to mend" if this goes on, I fear,
For the pace is too hot for the first of the year.

Down the meadow--they view--see the hounds how they tear!
They have him! Who-whoop! And the field are all--where?
Here we come. Scarce a coat but betokens a fall,
But who-whoop! what a cracker to open the ball!

MORAL.

Fox-hunting and fellowship go hand in hand,
And a true sporting mind by a friend's sure to stand;
So let each drain a bumper nor think it high treason
To follow The Queen with "The First of the Season."

The bond of good feeling is found in the field;
As the Squire meets the Farmer the compact is sealed.
And each vows, as the moments flit merrily by,
The world has no music like hounds in full cry.

UNCLE JOHN'S NEW HORSE.

A letter I found on my table, addressed to Edward Milford, Esq., Duke Street, St. James's, which, being my name and address, I took the liberty of opening, reminded me of the fact that I was engaged to my uncle for the Christmas holidays.

It ran as follows:

"The Grange, Slopton.

"MY BOY,

"You are booked to us for Christmas, so don't fail. It is to be ten
days this time, and no telegram 'on important business' to call you
away, as, if I remember right, was the case on your last visit.
There are many attractions here, or will be by the time you arrive.
First, myself; secondly, a new horse, which you will have the
pleasure of trying for me; and, thirdly, your cousin Grace. There
are a few pheasants, and, besides, some of the old port. You will
find a hearty welcome from your affectionate

"UNCLE JOHN."

Uncle John (whose surname was Dawson) was the sole surviving relation from whom I had any expectations. He was my mother's brother, and on the death of both my parents had been left my guardian. He had never married; but about the same time that he undertook to train me in the path in which I should go, he had adopted the orphan child of his brother, and it was almost an understood thing that his property would, at his demise, be equally divided between myself and Grace Dawson, the lady referred to in his letter as cousin Grace.

A thorough sportsman of the old school, whose creed lay in horse, hound, and hospitality, he made The Grange as pleasant a place to stop at as one could well find. But there was (as there is in every enjoyment) one drawback--to me at least--and that lay in the "new horse."

My worthy uncle, excellent rider as he was, happened to be the worst judge of a horse in the world, and was always picking up wonderful bargains which, unfortunately, he insisted on my trying for him. How it is that I have hitherto escaped with an unbroken neck I cannot say; for there is scarcely any circus-rider in the United Kingdom who dare lay claim to more double somersaults, and I might almost say that I am an expert at flying in all its branches.

However, nothing venture nothing have; and I was not going to quarrel with Uncle John through any fear of Uncle John's new horse, besides the attraction of cousin Grace. So I sent an answer accepting the invitation, and giving the train by which I should arrive.

It was a cold cheerless afternoon when, having wrapped myself up in my railway-rug, I selected a regalia reina and proceeded to settle myself in the space allotted to me by a magnanimous railway company in a smoking carriage attached to the 3.50 P.M. to Slopton.

There are three things that, when travelling, invariably strike me as peculiar; and which I am forced to put down either to the perversity of human nature or the desire not to give too much comfort for the money.

First: Why is it that the examination of tickets never takes place until nearly the last moment, when one is well wrapped up and settled--the finding of the required piece of cardboard entailing an undoing of the whole arrangement, a search through an infinity of pockets, a loss of temper, a letting in of much cold air, and, to wind up, the almost positive certainty that, having worked oneself into a fever because the blessed article is not forthcoming, one suddenly remembers that, with a chuckle at one's own 'cuteness and in order not to be disturbed, it had been slipped into the band of one's hat, where it had been staring an idiotic examiner in the face for fully five minutes, he pretending all the while not to have seen it?

Secondly: Why, just as you have recovered from the effects of the official visit and have rearranged yourself with, perhaps, your feet on the opposite cushion, if the door opens and another passenger gets in, should he be certain to choose the very seat where you have deposited your legs, notwithstanding that there may be three or four other vacant places, and that by sitting opposite he inflicts the maximum of discomfort on both?

Thirdly: Why is it that the carriages are built with a projection, whereupon you are supposed to recline your head if disposed to sleep, but to effect which purpose you must perforce sit bolt upright, the said projection invariably being, for ordinary mortals, some four inches too high?

And why, if either you yourself or your next-door neighbour, neglect to assume the rigid and perpendicular position necessary, but venture to fall asleep in a more comfortable posture, should it be very long odds that you find yourself reposing peacefully on his shirt-front, or vice-versa?

Before I had arrived at any solution of these phenomena, the train ran into Crosby Junction, and, together with a foot-warmer--which, so far as I could make out, was filled with cold water--there entered a portly individual, whose vocation was plainly stamped on his garments--to wit, a horse-dealer.

After the lapse of a few minutes, during which time the portly one kept the door open, he was joined by another member of the fraternity, who, from the likeness between them, was evidently his son. After we had started again, the father began the conversation by saying to his son: "Jim, I wonder how the old gent likes his horse," at which the youth allowed a smile to steal over his face, and remarked sententiously: "Lucky you got the money down, dad."

Who, I wondered, was the old gent? Somebody else's "Uncle John" perhaps, I thought, and began to reflect on the possibility of his having a nephew to risk his neck over doubtful purchases. I felt a curiosity on the subject, as I knew most of the inhabitants of the country we were approaching, and made up my mind to try and find out.

So turning to the elder I said: "I see, sir" (it is always "Sir" in a first-class, "Mister" in a second, and "Mayster" in a third, I have noticed), "that you know something about horses, and, being a stranger in this country, I should be extremely glad if you could tell me where I am likely to pick up a couple or three at a reasonable price. I have a commission to buy three hunters for a friend in London, and am going down to a place called The Grange, to look at one belonging to a Mr.--Dawson I think is the name; but I should be glad to hear of two others. By-the-way, do you know what sort of cattle Mr. Dawson keeps?"

As I concluded my speech, which I thought decidedly artful, I saw father and son exchange significant glances, and then my portly friend replied:

"Well, sir, you've come to the right shop for what you want. I have three of the very best you ever clapped your eyes on. If you will favour me with a call to-morrow or the next day we might do business. Though I must tell you that I am a one-price man, and keep none but the best. Perhaps, sir, you would take my card," and he presented for my inspection a highly-glazed piece of pasteboard, whereon was imprinted

+-----------------------------------+
| |
| JOSIAH BELL & SON, |
| COMMISSION STABLES, |
| _102, Bridge Street, |
| Muxford_. |
| |
| _Hacks, Hunters, Harness._ |
+-----------------------------------+

When he saw that I had digested the contents and had transferred the card to my pocket, he continued in a more confidential tone: "I'll give you a little bit of advice, sir. Don't be too sweet on Mr. Dawson's horse; I know he has one for sale which he bought up in town, a rare good 'un to look at, but a regular beast. If he takes it into his head he will do nothing but stand still and kick, and if he can't shift you at that he'll lie down and roll. Poor old gentleman, he was awful took in over it! He should have come to me. You can't mistake the 'oss, it's a big upstanding bay with a white stocking on the near fore. But here's Muxford, so I'll wish you good-day, and 'opes to see you to-morrow or the next day. If I ain't at home my son here will show you the nags;" and he got down.

Just before the train moved on again, however, he came to the window and said, "Don't you buy the bay 'oss on no account."

It was not hard to put, in this instance, two and two together, and when we arrived at Slopton I had quite made up my mind where the "new horse" had been bought. On getting out of the train I was nearly deposited under the wheels by a vigorous slap, administered in the centre of my back, coupled with the remark: "Why, my lad, you look like a Polar bear in that ulster. It isn't cold. How are you?"

Having recovered my equilibrium, I turned round and encountered the jovial face of Uncle John, whose nose, however, belied his speech anent the weather, for it was glistening red, like the sun through a London fog.

"I'm all right, uncle," I replied; "I can see you are. How are they all at The Grange?"

"Fit as fiddles," responded my guardian. "Grace is outside in the carriage, so get your traps together and let's be off. By-the-bye, I have such a grand new horse for you to try. You shall ride him on Tuesday, when the hounds meet at Abbot's Hill. A big upstanding bay; such a beauty! Got him dirt cheap; but there, I'll tell you all about him when we get home."

"Has he got a white stocking on the near fore?" I asked.

"Yes; how the deuce did you know, I wonder?" queried my uncle. "But look sharp with those things: you take as long collecting your traps as a fox does to leave a big wood."

"Alas, poor me!" I thought. "It is Mr. Bell's horse;" and I went out to see cousin Grace with anything but a feeling of "pleasures to come." The sight of her dear face and the warmth of her greeting, however, soon made me forget all about the white stocking, and the journey home was passed in questions asked and answers given. She told me that on the morrow the remainder of the party were expected down, among them old Lady Ventnor and her son Lord Ventnor, a young gentleman who gave himself considerable airs on the strength of his title, and for whom I had an intense dislike, owing perhaps in a great measure to an idea that he had designs on Grace's affections, which, although I had never hinted a word of love to her, caused me more uneasiness than I liked to say.

As a set-off against this (to me) obnoxious element, my old school-fellow and almost brother, Jack Fisher, was already in the house, together with his sister, who was A1 whether across country or in a ball-room, and the life and soul of any house she might be staying in.

Old "young ladies" no doubt used to shake their heads and say, in their jealousy, that she was "so fast;" but a better girl, in every sense of the word, than Lettie Fisher did not exist, despite her boisterous spirits and reckless daring.

Naturally when we arrived at The Grange Jack and I had lots to talk over--old days, old sayings, and old friends; and in the smoking-room, when Uncle John, seated in his favourite armchair, with a long churchwarden, fast colouring from constant usage, in his hand, endeavoured to inflict on us a detailed description of the big upstanding bay, we simply refused to listen to him, and I told him I would prefer to form my judgment from actual experience.

Next day the rest of the guests arrived, and I had the pleasure of seeing young Ventnor doing his little best to ingratiate himself with my cousin. I am afraid that my manner showed that something was wrong, for after dinner in the drawing-room Grace, having for a moment freed herself from his lordship's attentions, came across to where I was sitting moodily contemplating the piano, and said:

"What is the matter, Ned? You look as cross as two sticks. Everyone will think you have committed a murder if you go on staring into vacancy. Ventnor says you would make a beautiful Hamlet."

"Very likely," I retorted. "I was just then thinking with the Prince of Denmark that some of Nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. Tell Ventnor I am highly flattered by his opinion of me as a representative of the Dane."

Grace only raised her eyebrows and left me to my thoughts, which were interrupted by the arrival of the butler, who informed Uncle John that the stud-groom was waiting for orders about the morrow.

My Uncle, who had gone to sleep over his paper and was still in the land of dreams, astonished us all by saying: "No more, thanks; not a drop more. Excellent claret, but no more, thank you."