NEXT day being a “dies non” in the hunting way, Sir Moses Mainchance lay at earth to receive his steward, Mr. Mordecai Nathan, and hear what sport he had had as well in hunting up arrears of rent as in the management of the Pangburn Park estate generally. Very sorry the accounts were, many of the apparent dullard farmers being far more than a match for the sharp London Jew. Mr. Mordecai Nathan indeed, declared that it would require a detective policeman to watch each farm, so tricky and subtile were the occupants. And as Sir Moses listened to the sad recitals, how Henery Brown & Co. had been leading off their straw by night, and Mrs. Turnbull selling her hay by day, and Jacky Hindmarch sowing his fallows without ever taking out a single weed, he vowed that they were a set of the biggest rogues under the sun, and deserved to be hung all in a row,—dom’d if they didn’t! And he moved and seconded and carried a resolution in his own mind, that the man who meddled with land as a source of revenue was a very great goose. So, charging Mr. Mordecai Nathan to stick to them for the money, promising him one per cent. more (making him eleven) on what he recovered, he at length dissolved the meeting, most heartily wishing he had Pangburn Park in his pocket again. Meanwhile Messrs. Flintoff and Pringle had yawned away the morning in the usual dreamy loungy style of guests in country-houses, where the meals are the chief incidents of the day. Mr. Pringle not choosing to be tempted with any more “pie,” had slipped away to the stable as soon as Cuddy produced the dread cigar-case after breakfast, and there had a conference with Mr. Wetun, the stud-groom, about his horse Napoleon the Great. The drunkard half laughed when Billy asked “if he thought the horse would be fit to come out in the morning, observing that he thought it would be a good many mornins fust, adding that Mr. Fleams the farrier had bled him, but he didn’t seem any better, and that he was coming back at two o’clock, when p’raps Mr. Pringle had better see him himself.” Whereupon our friend Billy, recollecting Sir Moses’s earnest deprecation of his having stayed at home for want of a horse the day before, and the liberal way he had talked of Atalanta and Pegasus, and he didn’t know what else, now charged Mr. Wetun not to mention his being without a horse, lest Sir Moses might think it necessary to mount him; which promise being duly accorded, Billy, still shirking Cuddy, sought the retirement of his chamber, where he indited an epistle to his anxious Mamma, telling her all, how he had left Major Yammerton’s and the dangerous eyes, and had taken up his quarters with Sir Moses Mainchance, a great fox-hunting Hit-im and Hold-im shire Baronet at Pangburn Park, expecting she would be very much pleased and struck with the increased consequence. Instead of which, however, though Mrs. Pringle felt that he had perhaps hit upon the lesser evil, she wrote him a very loving letter by return of post, saying she was glad to hear he was enjoying himself, but cautioning him against “Moses Mainchance” (omitting the Sir), adding that every man’s character was ticketed in London, and the letters “D. D.” for “Dirty Dog” were appended to his. She also told him that uncle Jerry had been inquiring about him, and begging she would call upon him at an early day on matters of business, all of which will hereafter “more full and at large appear,” as the lawyers say; meanwhile, we must back the train of ideas a little to our hero. Just as he was affixing the great seal of state to the letter, Cuddy Flintoff’s “for-rard on! for-rard on!” was heard progressing along the passage, followed by a noisy knock, with an exclamation of “Pringle” at our friend’s door.
“Come in!” cried he; and in obedience to the invitation, Flintoff stood in the doorway. “Don’t forget,” said he, “that we dine at Hinton to-day, and the Baronet’s ordered the trap at four,” adding, “I’m going to dress, and you’d better do the same.” So saying, Cuddy closed the door, and hunted himself along to his own room at the end of the passage—“E’leu in there! E’leu in!” oried he as he got to the door.
Hinton, once the second town in Hit-im and Hold-im shire, stands at the confluence of the Long Brawlinerford and Riplinton brooks, whose united efforts here succeed in making a pretty respectable stream. It is an old-fashioned country place, whose component parts may be described as consisting of an extensive market-place, with a massive church of the florid Gothic, or gingerbread order of architecture at one end, a quaint stone-roofed, stone-pillared market cross at the other, the Fox and Hounds hotel and posting-house on the north side, with alternating shops and public houses on the south.
Its population, according to a certain “sore subject” topographical dictionary, was 23,500, whilst its principal trade might have been described as “fleecing the foxhunters.” That was in its golden days, when Lord Martingal hunted the country, holding his court at the Fox and Hounds hotel, where gentlemen stayed with their studs for months and months together, instead of whisking about with their horses by steam. Then every stable in the town was occupied at very remunerative rents, and the inhabitants seemed to think they could never build enough.
Like the natives of most isolated places, the Hintonites were very self-sufficient, firmly believing that there were no such conjurors as themselves; and, when the Grumpletin railway was projected, they resolved that it would ruin their town, and so they opposed it to a man, and succeeded in driving it several miles off, thus scattering their trade among other places along the line. Year by year the bonnet and mantle shops grew less gay, the ribbons less attractive, until shop after shop lapsed into a sort of store, hardware on one side, and millinery, perhaps, on the other. But the greatest fall of all was that of the Fox and Hounds hotel and posting-house. This spacious hostelry had apparently been built with a view of accommodating everybody; and, at the time of our story, it loomed in deserted grandeur in the great grass-grown market-place. In structure it was more like a continental inn than an English one; quadrangular, entered by a spacious archway, from whose lofty ceiling hung the crooks, from whence used to dangle the glorious legs and loins of four-year-old mutton, the home-fed hams, the geese, the ducks, the game, with not unfrequently a haunch or two of presentation venison. With the building, however, the similarity ended, the cobble-stoned courtyard displaying only a few water-casks and a basket-caged jay, in lieu of the statues, and vases, and fountains, and flower-stands that grace the flagged courts of the continent. But in former days it boasted that which in the eye of our innkeeper passes show, namely, a goodly line of two-horse carriages drawn across its ample width. In those days county families moved like county families, in great, caravan-like carriages, with plenty of servants, who, having drunk the “Park or Hall” allowance, uphold their characters and the honour of their houses, by topping up the measure of intemperance with their own money. Their masters and mistresses, too, considered the claims of the innkeepers, and ate and drank for the good of the house, instead of sneaking away to pastry-cooks for their lunches at a third of the price of the inn ones. Not that any landlord had ever made money at the Fox and Hounds hotel. Oh, no! it would never do to admit that. Indeed, Mr. Binny used to declare, if it wasn’t “the great regard he had for Lord Martingal and the gents of his hunt, he’d just as soon be without their custom;” just as all Binnys decry, whatever they have—military messes, hunt messes, bar messes, any sort of messes. They never make anything by them—not they.
Now, however, that the hunt was irrevocably gone, words were inadequate to convey old Peter the waiter’s lamentations at its loss. “Oh dear, sir!” he would say, as he showed a stranger the club-room, once the eighth wonder of the world, “Oh dear, sir! I never thought to see things come to this pass. This room, sir, used to be occupied night after night, and every Wednesday we had more company than it could possibly hold. Now we have nothing but a miserable three-and-sixpence a head once a month, with Sir Moses in the chair, and a shilling a bottle for corkage. Formerly we had six shillings a bottle for port and five for sherry, which, as our decanters didn’t hold three parts, was pretty good pay.” Then Peter would open the shutters and show the proportions of the room, with the unrivalled pictures on the walls: Lord Martingal on his horse, Lord Martingal off his horse; Mr. Customer on his horse, Mr. Customer off his horse, Mr. Customer getting drunk; Mr. Crasher on his horse, Mr. Crasher with a hound, &c., all in the old woodeny style that prevailed before the gallant Grant struck out a fresh light in his inimitable “Breakfast,” and “Meet of the Stag-hounds.” But the reader will perhaps accompany us to one of Sir Moses’s “Wednesday evenings;” for which purpose they will have the goodness to suppose the Baronet and Mr. Flintoff arrayed in the dress uniform of the hunt—viz., scarlet coats with yellow collars and facings, and Mr. Pringle attired in the height of the fashion, bundling into one of those extraordinary-shaped vehicles that modern times have introduced. “Right!” cries the footman from the steps of the door, as Bankhead and Monsieur mount the box of the carriage, and away the well-muffled party drive to the scene of action.
The great drawback to the Hit-im and Hold-im shire hunt club-room at the Fox and Hounds hotel and posting-house at Hinton, undoubtedly was, that there was no ante or reception room. The guests on alighting from their vehicles, after ascending the broad straight flight of stairs, found themselves suddenly precipitated into the dazzling dining-room, with such dismantling accommodation only as a low screen before the door at the low-end of the room afforded. The effect therefore was much the or same as if an actor dressed for his part on the stage before the audience; a fox-hunter in his wraps, and a fox-hunter in his red, being very distinct and different beings. It was quite destructive of anything like imposing flourish or effect. Moreover the accumulation of steaming things on a wet night, which it generally was on a club dinner, added but little to the fragrance of the room. So much for generalities; we will now proceed to our particular dinner.
Sir Moses being the great gun of the evening, of course timed himself to arrive becomingly late—indeed the venerable post-boy who drove him, knew to a moment when to arrive; and as the party ascended the straight flight of stairs they met a general buzz of conversation coming down, high above which rose the discordant notes of the Laughing Hyæna. It was the first hunt-dinner of the season, and being the one at which Sir Moses generally broached his sporting requirements, parties thought it prudent to be present, as well as to hear the prospects of the season as to protect their own pockets. To this end some twenty or five-and-twenty variegated guests were assembled, the majority dressed in the red coat and yellow facings of the hunt, exhibiting every variety of cut, from the tight short-waisted swallow-tails of Mr. Crasher’s (the contemporary of George the Fourth) reign, down to the sack-like garment of the present day. Many of them looked as if, having got into their coats, they were never to get out of them again, but as pride feels no pain, if asked about them, they would have declared they were quite comfortable. The dark-coated gentry were principally farmers, and tradespeople, or the representatives of great men in the neighbourhood. Mr. Buckwheat, Mr. Doubledrill, Mr. James Corduroys, Mr. Stephen Broadfurrow; Mr. Pica, of the “Hit-im and Hold-im shire Herald;” Hicks, the Flying Hatter, and his shadow Tom Snowdon the draper or Damper, Manford the corn-merchant, Smith the saddler. Then there was Mr. Mossman, Lord Polkaton’s Scotch factor, Mr. Squeezeley, Sir Morgan Wildair’s agent, Mr. Lute, on behalf of Lord Harpsichord, Mr. Stiff representing Sir George Persiflage, &c., &c. These latter were watching the proceedings for their employers, Sir Moses having declared that Mr. Mossman, on a former occasion (see page 188, ante), had volunteered to subscribe fifty pounds to the hounds, on behalf of Lord Polkaton, and Sir Moses had made his lordship pay it too—“dom’d if he hadn’t.” With this sketch of the company, let us now proceed to the entry.
Though the current of conversation had been anything but flattering to our master before his arrival, yet the reception they now gave him, as he emerged from behind the screen, might have made a less self-sufficient man than Sir Moses think he was extremely popular. Indeed, they rushed at him in a way that none but Briareus himself could have satisfied. They all wanted to hug him at once. Sir Moses having at length appeased their enthusiasm, and given his beak a good blow, proceeded to turn part of their politeness upon Billy, by introducing him to those around. Mr. Pringle, Mr. Jarperson—Mr. Pringle, Mr. Paul Straddler—Mr. Pringle, Mr. John Bullrush, and so on.
Meanwhile Cuddy Flintoff kept up a series of view halloas and hunting noises, as guest after guest claimed the loan of his hand for a shake. So they were all very hearty and joyful as members of a fox-hunting club ought to be.
The rules of the Hit-im and Hold-im-shire hunt, like those of many other hunts and institutions, were sometimes very stringent, and sometimes very lax—very stringent when an objectionable candidate presented himself—very lax when a good one was to be obtained. On the present occasion Sir Moses Mainchance had little difficulty in persuading the meeting to suspend the salutary rule (No. 5) requiring each new candidate to be proposed and seconded at one meeting, and his name placed above the mantelpiece in the club-room, until he was ballotted for at another meeting, in favour of the nephew of his old friend and brother Baronet, Sir Jonathan Pringle; whom he described as a most promising young sportsman, and likely to make a most valuable addition to their hunt. And the members all seeing matters in that light, Cuddy Flintoff was despatched for the ballot-box, so that there might be no interruption to the advancement of dinner by summoning Peter. Meanwhile Sir Moses resumed the introductory process, Mr. Heslop Mr. Pringle, Mr. Pringle Mr. Smoothley, Mr. Drew Mr. Pringle, helping Billy to the names of such faces as he could not identity for want of their hunting caps. Cleverer fellows than Billy are puzzled to do that sometimes.
Presently Mr. Flintoff returned with the rat-trap-like ballot-box under his arm, and a willow-pattern soup-plate with some beans in the bottom of it, in his hand.
“Make way!” cried he, “make way!” advancing up the room with all the dignity of a mace-bearer. “Where will you have it, Sir Moses?” asked he, “where will you have it, Sir Moses?”
“Here!” replied the Baronet, seizing a card-table from below the portrait of Mr. Customer getting drunk, and setting it out a little on the left of the fire. The ballot-box was then duly deposited on the centre of the green baize with a composite candle on each side of it.
Sir Moses, then thinking to make up in dignity what he had sacrificed to expediency, now called upon the meeting to appoint a Scrutineer on behalf of the club, and parties caring little who they named so long as they were not kept waiting for dinner, holloaed out “Mr. Flintoff!” whereupon Sir Moses put it to them if they were all content to have Mr. Flintoff appointed to the important and responsible office of Scrutineer, and receiving a shower of “yes-es!” in reply, he declared Mr. Flintoff was duly elected, and requested him to enter upon the duties of his office.
Cuddy, then turning up his red coat wrists, so that there might be no suspicion of concealed beans, proceeded to open and turn the drawers of the ballot-box upside down, in order to show that they were equally clear, and then restoring them below their “Yes” and “No” holes, he took his station behind the table with the soup-plate in his hand ready to drop a bean into each member’s hand, as he advanced to receive it. Mr. Heslop presently led the way at a dead-march-in-Saul sort of pace, and other members falling in behind like railway passengers at a pay place, there was a continuous dropping of beans for some minutes, a solemn silence being preserved as if the parties expected to hear on which side they fell.
At length the constituency was exhausted, and Mr. Flintoff having assumed the sand-glass, and duly proclaimed that he should close the ballot, if no member appeared before the first glass was out, speedily declared it was run, when, laying it aside, he emptied the soup-plate of the remaining beans, and after turning it upside down to show the perfect fairness of the transaction, handed it to Sir Moses to hold for the result. Drawing out the “Yes” drawer first, he proceeded with great gravity to count the beans out into the soup-plate—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, and so on, up to eighteen, when the inverted drawer proclaimed they were done.
“Eighteen Ayes,” announced Sir Moses to the meeting, amid a murmur of applause.
Mr. Flintoff then produced the dread “No,” or black-ball drawer, whereof one to ten white excluded, and turning it upside down, announced, in a tone of triumph, “none!”
“Hooray!” cried Sir Moses, seizing our hero by both hands, and hugging him heartily—“Hooray! give you joy, my boy! you’re a member of the first club in the world! The Caledonian’s nothing to it;—dom’d if it is.” So saying, he again swung him severely by the arms, and then handed him over to the meeting.
And thus Mr. Pringle was elected a member of the Hit-im and Hold-im shire hunt, without an opportunity of asking his Mamma, for the best of all reasons, that Sir Moses had not even asked him himself.
CARCELY were the congratulations of the company to our hero, on his becoming a member of the renowned Hit-im and Hold-im shire hunt, over, ere a great rush of dinner poured into the room, borne by Peter and the usual miscellaneous attendants at an inn banquet; servants in livery, servants out of livery, servants in a sort of half-livery, servants in place, servants out of place, post-boys converted into footmen, “boots” put into shoes. Then the carrot and turnip garnished roasts and boils, and stews were crowded down the table, in a profusion that would astonish any one who thinks it impossible to dine under a guinea a head. Rounds, sirloins middles, sucking-pigs, poultry, &c. (for they dispensed with the formalities of soup and fish ), being duly distributed. Peter announced the fact deferentially to Sir Moses, as he stood monopolizing the best place before the fire, whereupon the Baronet, drawing his hands out of his trowser’s pockets, let fall his yellow lined gloves and clapping his hands, exclaimed. “DINNER GENTLEMAN!” in a stentorian voice, adding, “PRINGLE you sit on my right! and CUDDY!” appealing to our friend Flintoff’. “will you take the vice-chair?”
“With all my heart!” replied Cuddy, whereupon making an imaginary hunting-horn of his hand, he put it to his mouth, and went blowing and hooping down the room, to entice a certain portion of the guests after him. All parties being at length suited with seats, grace was said, and the assault commenced with the vigorous determination of over-due appetites.
If a hand-in-the-pocket-hunt-dinner possesses few attractions in the way of fare, it is nevertheless free from the restraints and anxieties that pervade private entertainments, where the host cranes at the facetious as he scowls at his butler, or madame mingles her pleasantries with prayers for the safe arrival of the creams, and those extremely capricious sensitive jellies. People eat as if they had come to dine and not to talk, some, on this occasion, eating with their knives, some with their forks, some with both occasionally. And so, what with one aid and another, they made a very great clatter.
The first qualms of hunger being at length appeased, Sir Moses proceeded to select subjects for politeness in the wine-taking way—men whom he could not exactly have at his own house, but who might be prevented from asking for cover-rent, or damages, by a little judicious flattery, or again, men who were only supposed to be lukewarmly disposed towards the great Hit-im and Hold-im shire hunt.
Sir Moses would rather put his hand into a chimney-sweep’s pocket than into his own, but so long as anything could be got by the tongue he never begrudged it. So he “sherried” with Mossman and the army of observation generally, also with Pica, who always puffed his hunt, cutting at D’Orsay Davis’s efforts on behalf of the Earl, and with Buckwheat (whose son he had recently dom’d à la Rowley Abingdon), and with Corduroys, and Straddler, and Hicks, and Doubledrill—with nearly all the dark coats, in short—Cuddy Flintoff, too, kept the game a-going at his end of the table, as well to promote conviviality as to get as much wine as he could; so altogether there was a pretty brisk consumption, and some of the tight-clad gentlemen began to look rather apoplectic. Cannon-ball-like plum-puddings, hip-bath-like apple-pies, and foaming creams, completed the measure of their uneasiness, and left little room for any cheese. Nature being at length most abundantly satisfied throughout the assembly, grace was again said, and the cloth cleared for action. The regulation port and sherry, with light—very light—Bordeaux, being duly placed upon the table, with piles of biscuits at intervals, down the centre, Sir Moses tapped the well-indented mahogany with his presidential hammer, and proceeded to prepare the guests for the great toast of the evening, by calling upon them to fill bumpers to the usual loyal and patriotic ones. These being duly disposed of, he at length rose for the all-important let off, amid the nudges and “now then’s,” of such of the party as feared a fresh attempt on their pockets—Mossman and Co., in particular, were all eyes, ears, and fears.
“Gentlemen!” cries Sir Moses, rising and diving his hands into his trouser’s pockets—“Gentlemen!” repeated he, with an ominous cough, that sounded very like cash.
“Hark to the Bar owl!—hark” cheered Cuddy Flintoff from the other end of the room, thus cutting short a discussion about wool, a bargain for beans, and an inquiry for snuff in his own immediate neighbourhood, and causing a tapping of the table further up.
“Gentlemen!” repeated Sir Moses, for the third time, amid cries of “hear, hear,” and “order, order,”—“I now have the pleasure of introducing to your notice the toast of the evening—a toast endeared by a thousand associations, and rendered classical by the recollection of the great and good men who have given it in times gone by from this very chair—(applause). I need hardly say, gentlemen, that that toast is the renowned Hit-im and Hold-im shire hunt—(renewed applause)—a hunt second to none in the kingdom; a hunt whose name is famous throughout the land, and whose members are the very flower and élite of society—(renewed applause). Never, he was happy to say, since it was established, were its prospects so bright and cheering as they were at the present time—(great applause, the announcement being considered indicative of a healthy exchequer)—its country was great, its covers perfect, and thanks to their truly invaluable allies—the farmers—their foxes most abundant—(renewed applause). Of those excellent men it was impossible to speak in terms of too great admiration and respect—(applause)—whether he looked at those he was blessed with upon his own estate—(laughter)—or at the great body generally, he was lost for words to express his opinion of their patriotism, and the obligations he felt under to them. So far from ever hinting at such a thing as damage, he really believed a farmer would be hooted from the market-table who broached such a subject—(applause, with murmurs of dissent)—or who even admitted it was possible that any could be done—(laughter and applause). As for a few cocks and hens, he was sure they felt a pleasure in presenting them to the foxes. At all events, he could safely say he had never paid for any—(renewed laughter). Looking, therefore, at the hunt in all its aspects—its sport past, present, and to come—he felt that he never addressed them under circumstances of greater promise, or with feelings of livelier satisfaction. It only remained for them to keep matters up to the present mark, to insure great and permanent prosperity. He begged, therefore, to propose, with all the honours, Success to the Hit-im and Hold-im shire hunt!”—(drunk with three times three and one cheer more). Sir Moses and Cuddy Flintoff mounting their chairs to mark time. Flintoff finishing off with a round of view halloas and other hunting noises.
When the applause and Sir Moses had both subsided, parties who had felt uneasy about their pockets, began to breathe more freely, and as the bottles again circulated, Mr. Mossman and others, for whom wine was too cold, slipped out to get their pipes, and something warm in the bar; Mossman calling for whiskey, Buckwheat for brandy, Broadfurrow for gin, and so on. Then as they sugared and flavoured their tumblers, they chewed the cud of Sir Moses’s eloquence, and at length commenced discussing it, as each man got seated with his pipe in his mouth and his glass on his knee, in a little glass-fronted bar.
“What a man he is to talk, that Sir Moses,” observed Buckwheat after a long respiration.
“He’s a greet economist of the truth, I reckon,” replied Mr. Mossman, withdrawing his pipe from his mouth, “for I’ve written to him till I’m tired, about last year’s damage to Mrs. Anthill’s sown grass.”
“He’s right, though, in saying he never paid for poultry,” observed Mr. Broadfurrow, with a humorous shake of his big head, “but, my word, his hook-nosed agent has as many letters as would paper a room;” and so they sipped, and smoked, and talked the Baronet over, each man feeling considerably relieved at there being no fresh attempt on the pocket.
Meanwhile Sir Moses, with the aid of Cuddy Flintoff, trimmed the table, and kept the bottles circulating briskly, presently calling on Mr. Paul Straddler for a song, who gave them the old heroic one, descriptive of a gallant run with the Hit-im and Hold-im shire hounds, in the days of Mr. Customer, at which they all laughed and applauded as heartily as if they had never heard it before. They then drank Mr. Straddler’s health, and thanks to him for his excellent song.
As it proceeded, Sir Moses intimated quietly to our friend Billy Pringle that he should propose his health next, which would enable Mr. Pringle to return the compliment by proposing Sir Moses, an announcement that threw our hero into a very considerable state of trepidation, but from which he saw no mode of escape. Sir Moses then having allowed a due time to elapse after the applause that followed the drinking of Mr. Straddler’s health, again arose, and tapping the table with his hammer, called upon them to fill bumpers to the health of his young friend on his right (applause). “He could not express the pleasure it afforded him,” he said, “to see a nephew of his old friend and brother Baronet, Sir Jonathan Pringle, become a member of their excellent hunt, and he hoped Billy would long live to enjoy the glorious diversion of fox-hunting,” which Sir Moses said it was the bounden duty of every true-born Briton to support to the utmost of his ability, for that it was peculiarly the sport of gentlemen, and about the only one that defied the insidious arts of the blackleg, adding that Lord Derby was quite right in saying that racing had got into the hands of parties who kept horses not for sport, but as mere instruments of gambling, and if his (Sir Moses’s) young friend, Mr. Pringle, would allow him to counsel him, he would say, Never have anything to do with the turf (applause). Stick to hunting, and if it didn’t bring him in money, it would bring him in health, which was better than money, with which declaration Sir Moses most cordially proposed Mr. Pringle’s health (drunk with three times three and one cheer more).
Now our friend had never made a speech in his life, but being, as we said at the outset, blessed with a great determination of words to the mouth, he rose at a hint from Sir Moses, and assured the company “how grateful he was for the honour they had done him as well in electing him a member of their delightful sociable hunt, as in responding to the toast of his health in the flattering manner they had, and he could assure them that nothing should be wanting on his part to promote the interests of the establishment, and to prove himself worthy of their continued good opinion,” at which intimation Sir Moses winked knowingly at Mr. Smoothley, who hemmed a recognition of his meaning.
Meanwhile Mr. Pringle stood twirling his trifling moustache, wishing to sit down, but feeling there was something to keep him up: still he couldn’t hit it off. Even a friendly round of applause failed to help him out; at length, Sir Moses, fearing he might stop altogether, whispered the words “My health,” just under his nose; at which Billy perking up, exclaimed, “Oh, aye, to be sure!” and seizing a decanter under him, he filled himself a bumper of port, calling upon the company to follow his example. This favour being duly accorded, our friend then proceeded, in a very limping, halting sort of way, to eulogise a man with whom he was very little acquainted amid the friendly word-supplying cheers and plaudits of the party. At length he stopped again, still feeling that he was not due on his seat, but quite unable to say why he should not resume it. The company thinking he might have something to say to the purpose, how he meant to hunt with them, or something of that sort, again supplied the cheers of encouragement. It was of no use, however, he couldn’t hit it off.
“All the honors!” at length whispered Sir Moses as before.
“O, ah, to be sure! all the honors!” replied Billy aloud, amidst the mirth of the neighbours. “Gentlemen!” continued he, elevating his voice to its former pitch, “This toast I feel assured—that is to say, I feel quite certain. I mean,” stammered he, stamping with his foot, “I, I, I.”
“Aye, two thou’s i’ Watlington goods!” exclaimed the half-drunken Mr. Corduroys, an announcement that drew forth such a roar of laughter as enabled Billy to tack the words, “all the honors,” to the end, and so with elevated glass to continue the noise with cheers. He then sate down perfectly satisfied with this his first performance, feeling that he had the germs of oratory within him.
A suitable time having elapsed, Sir Moses rose and returned thanks with great vigour, declaring that beyond all comparison that was the proudest moment of his life, and that he wouldn’t exchange the mastership of the Hit-im and Hold-im shire hounds for the highest, the noblest office in the world—Dom’d if he would! with which asseveration he drank all their very good healths, and resumed his seat amidst loud and long continued applause, the timidest then feeling safe against further demands on their purses. Another song quickly followed, and then according to the usual custom of society, that the more you abuse a man in private the more you praise him in public, Sir Moses next proposed the health of that excellent and popular nobleman the Earl of Ladythorne, whose splendid pack showed such unrivalled sport in the adjoining county of Featherbedford; Sir Moses, after a great deal of flattery, concluding by declaring that he would “go to the world’s end to serve Lord Ladythorne—Dom’d if he wouldn’t,” a sort of compliment that the noble Earl never reciprocated; on the contrary, indeed, when he condescended to admit the existence of such a man as Sir Moses, it was generally in that well-known disparaging enquiry, “Who is that Sir Aaron Mainchance? or who is that Sir Somebody Mainchance, who hunts Hit-im and Hold-im shire?” He never could hit off the Baronet’s Christian or rather Jewish name. Now, however, it was all the noble Earl, “my noble friend and brother master,” the “noble and gallant sportsman,” and so on. Sir Moses thus partly revenging himself on his lordship with the freedom.
When a master of hounds has to borrow a “draw” from an adjoining country, it is generally a pretty significant hint that his own is exhausted, and when the chairman of a hunt dinner begins toasting his natural enemy the adjoining master, it is pretty evident that the interest of the evening is over. So it was on the present occasion. Broad backs kept bending away at intervals, thinking nobody saw them, leaving large gaps unclosed up, while the guests that remained merely put a few drops in the bottoms of their glasses or passed the bottles altogether.
Sir Aaron, we beg his pardon—Sir Moses, perceiving this, and knowing the value of a good report, called on those who were left to “fill a bumper to the health of their excellent and truly invaluable friend Mr. Pica, contrasting his quiet habits with the swaggering bluster of a certain Brummagem Featherbedfordshire D’Orsay.” (Drunk with great applause, D’Orsay Davis having more than once sneered at the equestrian prowess of the Hit-im aud Hold-im shire-ites.)
Mr. Pica, who was a fisherman and a very bad one to boot, then arose and began dribbling out the old stereotyped formula about air we breathe, have it not we die, &c., which was a signal for a general rise; not all Sir Moses and Cuddy Flintoff’s united efforts being able to restrain the balance of guests from breaking away, and a squabble occurring behind the screen about a hat, the chance was soon irrevocably gone. Mr. Pica was, therefore, left alone in his glory. If any one, however, can afford to be indifferent about being heard, it is surely an editor who can report himself in his paper, and poor Pica did himself ample justice in the “Hit-im and Hold-im shire Herald” on the Saturday following.
THE 15th rule of the Hit-im and Hold-im shire hunt, provides that all members who dine at the club, may have tea and muffins ad libitum for 6 d. a head afterwards, and certainly nothing can be more refreshing after a brawling riotous dinner than a little quiet comfortable Bohea. Sir Moses always had his six-penn’orth, as had a good many of his friends and followers. Indeed the rule was a proposition of the Baronet’s, such a thing as tea being unheard of in the reign of Mr. Customer, or any of Sir Moses’s great predecessors. Those were the days of “lift him up and carry him to bed.” Thank goodness they are gone! Men can hunt without thinking it necessary to go out with a headache. Beating a jug in point of capacity is no longer considered the accomplishment of a gentleman.
Mr. Pica’s eloquence having rather prematurely dissolved the meeting, Sir Moses and his friends now congregated round the fire all very cheery and well pleased with themselves—each flattering the other in hopes of getting a compliment in return. “Gone off amazingly well!” exclaimed one, rubbing his hands in delight at its being over. “Capital party,” observed another. “Excellent speech yours, Sir Moses,” interposed a third. “Never heard a better,” asserted a fourth. “Ought to ask to have it printed,” observed a fifth. “O, never fear! Pica’ll do that,” rejoined a sixth, and so they went on warding off the awkward thought, so apt to arise of “what a bore these sort of parties are. Wonder if they do any good?”
The good they do was presently shown on this occasion by Mr. Smoothley, the Jackall of the hunt, whose pecuniary obligations to Sir Moses we have already hinted at, coming bowing and fawning obsequiously up to our Billy, revolving his hands as though he were washing them, and congratulating him upon becoming one of them. Mr. Smoothley was what might be called the head pacificator of the hunt, the gentleman who coaxed subscriptions, deprecated damage, and tried to make young gentlemen believe they had had very good runs, when in fact they had only had very middling ones.
The significant interchange of glances between Sir Moses and him during Billy’s speech related to a certain cover called Waverley gorse, which the young Woolpack, Mr. Treadcroft, who had ascertained his inability to ride, had announced his intention of resigning. The custom of the hunt was, first to get as many covers as they could for nothing; secondly to quarter as few on the club funds as possible; and thirdly to get young gentlemen to stand godfathers to covers, in other words to get them to pay the rent in return for the compliment of the cover passing by their names, as Heslop’s spiny, Linch’s gorse, Benson’s banks, and so on.
This was generally an after-dinner performance, and required a skilful practitioner to accomplish, more particularly as the trick was rather notorious. Mr. Smoothley was now about to try his hand on Mr. Pringle. The bowing and congratulations over, and the flexible back straightened, he commenced by observing that, he supposed a copy of the rules of the hunt addressed to Pangburn Park, would find our friend.
“Yarse,” drawled Billy, wondering if there would be anything to pay. “Dash it, he wished there mightn’t? Shouldn’t be surprised if there was?”
Mr. Smoothley, however, gave him little time for reflection, for taking hold of one of his own red-coat buttons, he observed, “that as he supposed Mr. Pringle would be sporting the hunt uniform, he might take the liberty of mentioning that Garnett the silversmith in the market-place had by far the neatest and best pattern’d buttons.”
“Oh, Garnett, oh, yarse,” replied Billy, thinking he would get a set for his pink, instead of the plain ones he was wearing.
“His shop is next the Lion and the Lamb public house,” continued Mr. Smoothley, “between it and Mrs. Russelton the milliner’s, and by the way that reminds me,” continued he, though we don’t exactly see how it could, “and by the way that reminds me that there is an excellent opportunity for distinguishing yourself by adopting the cover young Mr. Treadcroft has just abandoned.”
“The w-h-a-at?” drawled Billy, dreading a “do;” his mother having cautioned him always to be mindful after dinner.
“O, merely the gorse,” continued Mr. Smoothley, in the most affable matter-of-course way imaginable, “merely the gorse—if you’ll step this way, I’ll show you,” continued he, leading the way to where a large dirty board was suspended against the wall below the portrait of Lord Martingal on his horse.
“Now he’s running into him!” muttered Sir Moses to himself, his keen eye supplying the words to the action.
“This, you see,” explained Mr. Smoothley, hitching the board off its brass-headed nail, and holding it to the light—“this, you see, is a list of all the covers in the country—Screechley, Summer-field, Reddingfield, Bewley, Lanton Hill, Baxterley, and so forth. Then you see here,” continned he, pointing to a ruled column opposite, “are the names of the owners or patrons—yes” (reading), “owners or patrons—Lord Oilcake, Lord Polkaton, Sir Harry Fuzball, Mr. Heslop, Lord Harpsichord, Mr. Drew, Mr. Smith. Now young Mr. Treadcroft, who has had as many falls as he likes, and perhaps more, has just announced his intention of retiring and giving up this cover,” pointing to Waverley, with Mr. Treadcroft, Jun.‘s name opposite to it, “and it struck me that it would be a capital opportunity for you who have just joined us, to take it before anybody knows, and then it will go by the name of Pringle’s gorse, and you’ll get the credit of all the fine runs that take place from it.”
“Y-a-r-s-e,” drawled Billy, thinking that that would be a sharp thing to do, and that it would be fine to rank with the lords.
“Then,” continued Mr. Smoothley, taking the answer for an assent, “I’ll just strike Treadey’s name ont, and put yours in;” so saying, he darted at the sideboard, and seizing an old ink-clotted stump of a pen, with just enough go in it to make the required alteration, and substituted Mr. Pringle’s name for that of Mr. Treadcroft. And so, what with his cover, his dinner, and his button, poor Billy was eased of above twenty pounds.
Just as Sir Moses was blowing his beak, stirring the fire, and chuckling at the success of the venture, a gingling of cups and tinkling of spoons was heard in the distance, and presently a great flight of tea-trays emerged from either side of the screen, conspicuous among the bearers of which were the tall ticket-of-leave butler and the hirsute Monsieur Jean Rougier. These worthies, with a few other “gentlemen’s gentlemen,” had been regaled to a supper in the “Blenheim,” to which Peter had contributed a liberal allowance of hunt wine, the consumption of which was checked by the corks, one set, it was said, serving Peter the season. That that which is everybody’s business is nobody’s, is well exemplified in these sort of transactions, for though a member of the hunt went through the form of counting the cork-tops every evening, and seeing that they corresponded with the number set down in Peter’s book, nobody ever compared the book with the cellar, so that in fact Peter was both check-keeper and auditor. Public bodies, however, are all considered fair game, and the Hit-im and Hold-im shire hunt was no exception to the rule. In addition to the wine, there had been a sufficient allowance of spirits in the “Blenheim” to set the drunkards to work on their own account, and Jack Rogers, who was quite the life of the party, was very forward in condition when the tea-summons was heard.
“Hush!” cried Peter, holding up his hand, and listening to an ominous bell-peal, “I do believe that’s for tea! So it is,” sighed he, as a second summons broke upon the ear. “Tea at this hour!” ejaculated he, “who’d ha’ thought it twenty years ago! Why, this is just the time they’d ha’ been calling for Magnums, and beginnin’ the evening—Tea! They’d as soon ha’ thought of callin’ for winegar!” added he, with a bitter sneer. So saying, Peter dashed a tear from his aged eye, and rising from his chair, craved the assistance of his guests to carry the degrading beverage up-stairs, to our degenerate party. “A set of weshenvomen!” muttered he, as the great slop-basin-like-cups stood ranged on trays along the kitchen-table ready for conveyance. “Sarves us right for allowing such a chap to take our country,” added he, adopting his load, and leading the tea-van.
When the soothing, smoking beverage entered, our friend, Cuddy Flintoff, was “yoicking” himself about the club-room, stopping now at this picture, now that, holloaing at one, view-holloaing at another, thus airing his hunting noises generally, as each successive subject recalled some lively association in his too sensitive hunting imagination. Passing from the contemplation of that great work of art, Mr. Customer getting drunk, he suddenly confronted the tea-brigade entering, led by Peter, Monsieur, and the ticket-of-leave butler.
“Holloa! old Bushey Heath!” exclaimed Cuddy, dapping his hands, as Mousieur’s frizzed face loomed congruously behind a muffin-towering tea-tray. “Holloa! old Bushey Heath!” repeated he, louder than before, “What cheer there?”
“Vot cheer there, Brother Bareacres?” replied Jack in the same familiar tone, to the great consternation of Cuddy, and the amusement of the party.
“Dash the fellow! but he’s getting bumptious,” muttered Cuddy, who had no notion of being taken up that way by a servant. “Dash the fellow! but he’s getting bumptious,” repeated he, adding aloud to Jack, “That’s not the way you talked when you tumbled off your horse the other day!”
“Tombled off my ‘oss, sare!” replied Jack, indignantly—“tombled off my ‘oss, sare—nevare, sare!—nevare!”
“What!” retorted Cuddy, “do you mean to say you didn’t tumble off your horse on the Crooked Billet day?” for Cuddy had heard of that exploit, but not of Jack’s subsequent performance.
“No, sare, I jomp off,” replied Jack, thinking Cuddy alluded to his change of horses with the Woolpack.
“Jo-o-m-p off! j-o-omp off!” reiterated Cuddy, “we all jomp off, when we can’t keep on. Why didn’t old Imperial John take you into the Crooked Billet, and scrape you, and cherish you, and comfort you, and treat you as he would his own son?” demanded Cuddy.
“Imperial John, sare, nevare did nothin’ of the sort,” replied Jack, confidently. “Imperial John and I retired to ‘ave leetle drop drink together to our better ‘quaintance. I met John there, n’est-ce pas? Monsieur Sare Moses, Baronet! Vasn’t it as I say?” asked Jack, jingling his tea-tray before the Baronet.
“Oh yes,” replied Sir Moses,—“Oh yes, undoubtedly; I introduced you there; but here! let me have some tea,” continued he, taking a cup, wishing to stop the conversation, lest Lord Ladythorne might hear he had introduced his right-hand man, Imperial John, to a servant.
Cuddy, however, wasn’t to be stopped. He was sure Jack had tumbled off, and was bent upon working him in return for his Bareacres compliment.
“Well, but tell us,” said he, addressing Jack again, “did you come over his head or his tail, when you jomp off?”
“Don’t, Cuddy! don’t!” now muttered Sir Moses, taking the entire top tier off a pile of muffins, and filling his mouth as full as it would hold; “don’t,” repeated he, adding, “it’s no use (munch) bullying a poor (crunch) beggar because he’s a (munch) Frenchman” (crunch). Sir Moses then took a great draught of tea.
Monsieur’s monkey, however, was now up, and he felt inclined to tackle with Flintoff. “I tell you vot, sare Cuddy,” said he, looking him full in the face, “you think yourself vare great man, vare great ossmaan, vare great foxer, and so on, bot I vill ride you a match for vot monies you please.”
“Hoo-ray! well done you! go it, Monsieur! Who’d ha’ thought it! Now for some fun!” resounded through the room, bringing all parties in closer proximity.
Flintoff was rather taken aback. He didn’t expect anything of that sort, and though he fully believed Jack to be a tailor, he didn’t want to test the fact himself; indeed he felt safer on foot than on horseback, being fonder of the theory than of the reality of hunting.
“Hut you and your matches,” sneered he, thrusting his hands deep in his trousers’ pockets, inclining to sheer of, adding, “go and get his Imperial Highness to ride you one.”
“His Imperial Highness, sare, don’t deal in oss matches. He is not a jockey, he is a gentlemans—great friend of de great lords vot rules de oder noisy dogs,” replied Jack.
“Humph, grunted Sir Moses, not liking the language.
“In-deed!” exclaimed Cuddy with a frown, “In-deed! Hark to Monsieur! Hark!”
“Oh, make him a match, Cuddy! make him a match!” now interposed Paul Straddler, closing up to prevent Cuddy’s retreat. Paul, as we said before, was a disengaged gentleman who kept a house of call for Bores at Hinton,—a man who was always ready to deal, or do anything, or go any where at any body else’s expense. A great judge of a horse, a great judge of a groom, a great judge of a gig, a gentleman a good deal in Cuddy Flintoff’s own line in short, and of course not a great admirer of his. He now thought he saw his way to a catch, for the Woolpack had told him how shamefully Jack had bucketed his horse, and altogether he thought Monsieur might be as good a man across country as Mr. Flintoff. At all events he would like to see.
“Oh, make him a match, Cuddy! make him a match!” now exclaimed he, adding in Flintoff’s ear, “never let it be said you were afraid of a Frenchman.”
“Afraid!” sneered Cuddy, “nobody who knows me will think that, I guess.”
“Well then, make him a match!” urged Tommy Heslop, who was no great admirer of Cuddy’s either; “make him a match, and I’ll go your halves.”
“And I’ll go Monsieur’s,” said Mr. Straddler, still backing the thing up. Thus appealed to, poor Cuddv was obliged to submit, and before he knew where he was, the dread pen, ink and paper were produced, and things began to assume a tangible form. Mr. Paul Straddler, having seated himself on a chair at the opportune card-table, began sinking his pen and smoothing out his paper, trying to coax his ideas into order.
“Now, let us see,” said he, “now let us see. Monsieur, what’s his name—old Bushey-heath as you call him, agrees to ride Mr. Flintoff a match across country—now for distance, time, and stake! now for distance, time, and stake!” added he, hitting off the scent.
“Well, but how can you make a match without any horses? how can you make a match without any horses?” asked Sir Moses, interposing his beak, adding “I’ll not lend any—dom’d if I will.” That being the first time Sir Moses was ever known not to volunteer one.
“O, we’ll find horses,” replied Tommy Heslop, “we’ll find horses!” thinking Sir Moses’s refusal was all in favor of the match. “Catch weights, catch horses, catch every thing.”
“Now for distance, time, and stake,” reiterated Mr. Straddler. “Now for distance, time, and stake, Monsieur!” continued he, appealing to Jack. “What distance would you like to have it?”
“Vot you please, sare,” replied Monsieur, now depositing his tray on the sideboard; “vot you please, sare, much or little; ten miles, twenty miles, any miles he likes.”
“O, the fellow’s mad,” muttered Cuddy, with a jerk of his head, making a last effort to be off.
“Don’t be in a hurry, Cuddy, don’t be in a hurry,” interposed Heslop, adding, “he doesn’t understand it—he doesn’t understand it.”
“O, I understands it, nicely, vell enough,” replied Jack, with a shrug of his shoulders; “put us on to two orses, and see vich gets first to de money post.”
“Aye, yes, exactly, to be sure, that’s all right,” asserted Paul Straddler, looking up approvingly at Jack, “and you say you’ll beat Mr. Flintoff?”
“I say I beat Mr. Flintoff,” rejoined Jack—“beat im dem vell too—beat his ead off—beat him stupendous!” added he.
“O, dash it all, we can’t stand that, Caddy!” exclaimed Mr. Heslop, nudging Mr. Flintoff; “honor of the country, honor of the hunt, honor of England, honor of every thing’s involved.” Cuddy’s bristles were now up too, and shaking his head and thrusting his hands deep into his trousers pockets, “he declared he couldn’t stand that sort of language,—shot if he could.”
“No; nor nobody else,” continued Mr. Heslop, keeping him up to the indignity mark; “must be taught better manners,” added he with a pout of the lip, as though fully espousing Caddy’s cause.
“Come along, then! come along!” cried Paul Straddler, flourishing his dirty pen; “let’s set up a school for grown sportsmen. Now for the good boys. Master Bushey-heath says he’ll ride Master Bareacres a match across country—two miles say—for, for, how much?” asked he, looking up.
This caused a pause, as it often does, even after dinner, and not the less so in the present instance, inasmuch as the promoters of the match had each a share in the risk. What would be hundreds in other people’s cases becomes pounds in our own.
Flintoff and Straddler looked pacifically at each other, as much as to say, “There’s no use in cutting each other’s throats, you know.”
“Suppose we say,” (exhibiting four fingers and a thumb, slyly to indicate a five pound note), said Heslop demurely, after a conference with Cuddy.
“With all my heart,” asserted Straddler, “glad it was no more.”
“And call it fifty,” whispered Heslop.
“Certainly!” assented Straddler, “very proper arrangement.”
“Two miles for fifty pounds,” announced Straddler, writing it down.
“P. P. I s’pose?” observed he, looking up.
“P. P.” assented Heslop.
“Now, what next?” asked Paul, feeling that there was something more wanted.
“An umpire,” suggested Mr. Smoothley.
“Ah, to be sure, an umpire,” replied Mr. Straddler; “who shall it be?”
“Sir Moses!” suggested several voices.
“Sir Moses, by all means,” replied Straddler.
“Content,” nodded Mr. Heslop.
“It must be on a non-hunting day, then,” observed the Baronet, speaking from the bottom of his tea-cup.
“Non-hunting day!” repeated Cuddy; “non-hunting day; fear that ‘ill not do—want to be off to town on Friday to see Tommy White’s horses sold. Have been above a week at the Park, as it is.”
“You’ve been a fortnight to-morrow, sir,” observed the ticket-of-leave butler (who had just come to announce the carriage) in a very different tone to his usual urbane whisper.
“Fortnight to-morrow, have I?” rejoined Cuddy sheepishly; “greater reason why I should be off.”
“O, never think about that! O, never think about that! Heartily welcome, heartily welcome,” rejoined Sir Moses, stuffing his mouth full of muffin, adding “Mr. Pringle will keep you company; Mr. Pringle will keep you company.” (Hunch, munch, crunch.)
“Mr. Pringle must stop,” observed Mr. Straddler, “unless he goes without his man.”
“To besure he must,” assented Sir Moses, “to be sure he must,” adding, “stop as long as ever you like. I’ve no engagement till Saturday—no engagement till Saturday.”
Now putting off our friend’s departure till Saturday just gave a clear day for the steeple-chase, the next one, Thursday, being Woolerton by Heckfield, Saturday the usual make-believe day at the kennels; so of course Friday was fixed upon, and Sir Moses having named “noon” as the hour, and Timberlake toll-bar as the rendezvous, commenced a series of adieus as he beat a retreat to the screen, where having resumed his wraps, and gathered his tail, he shot down-stairs, and was presently re-ensconced in his carriage.
The remanets then of course proceeded to talk him and his friends over, some wishing the Baronet mightn’t be too many for Billy, others again thinking Cuddy wasn’t altogether the most desirable acquaintance a young man could have, though there wasn’t one that didn’t think that he himself was.
That topic being at length exhausted, they then discussed the projected steeple-chase, some thinking that Cuddy was a muff, others that Jack was, some again thinking they both were. And as successive relays of hot brandy and water enabled them to see matters more clearly, the Englishman’s argument of betting was introduced, and closed towards morning at “evens,” either jockey for choice.
Let us now take a look at the homeward bound party.
It was lucky for Billy that the night was dark and the road rough with newly laid whinstones, for both Sir Moses and Cuddy opened upon him most volubly and vehemently as soon as ever they got off the uneven pavement, with no end of inquiries about Jack and his antecedents. If he could ride? If he had ever seen him ride? If he had ever ridden a steeplechase? Where he got him? How long he had had him?
To most of which questions, Billy replied with his usual monosyllabic drawling, “yarses,” amid jolts, and grinds, and gratings, and doms from Sir Moses, and cusses from Cuddy, easing his conscience with regard to Jack’s service, by saying that he had had him “some time.” Some time! What a fine elastic period that is. We’d back a lawyer to make it cover a century or a season. Very little definite information, however, did they extract from Billy with regard to Jack for the best of all reasons, that Billy didn’t know anything. Both Cuddy and Sir Moses interpreted his ignorance differently, and wished he mightn’t know more than was good for them. And so in the midst of roughs and smooths, and jolts and jumps, and examinings, and cross-examinings, and re-examinings, they at length reached Pangburn Park Lodges, and were presently at home.
“Breakfast at eight!” said Sir Moses to Bankhead, as he alighted from the carriage.
“Breakfast at eight, Pringle!” repeated he, and seizing a flat candlestick from the half-drunken footman in the passage, he hurried up-stairs, blowing his beak with great vigour to drown any appeal to him about a horse.
He little knew how unlikely our young friend was to trouble him in that way.