HE worst of these dejeuners à la fourchette, and also of luncheons, is, that they waste the day, and then send men out half-wild to ride over the hounds or whatever else comes in their way. The greatest funkers, too, are oftentimes the boldest under the influence of false courage; so that the chances of mischief are considerably increased. The mounted Champagne bottle smoking a cigar, at page 71, is a good illustration of what we mean. We doubt not Mr. Longneck was very forward in that run.
All our Ivy Tower party were more or less primed, and even old Wotherspoon felt as if he could ride. Billy, too, mounted the gallant grey without his usual nervous misgivings, and trotted along between the Major and Rintoul with an easy Hyde Park-ish sort of air. Rintonl had intimated that he thought they would find a hare on Mr. Merryweather’s farm at Swayland, and now led them there by the fields, involving two or three little obstacles—a wattled hurdle among the rest—which they all charged like men of resolution. The hurdle wasn’t knocked over till the dogs’-meatmen came to it.
Arrived at Swayland, the field quickly dispersed, each on his own separate hare-seeking speculation, one man fancying a fallow, another a pasture: Rintonl reserving the high hedge near the Mill bridle-road, out of which he had seen more than one whipped in his time. So they scattered themselves over the country, flipping and flopping all the tufts ard likely places, aided by the foot-people with their sticks, and their pitchings and tossings of stones into bushes and hollows, and other tempting-looking retreats.
The hounds, too, ranged far and wide, examining critically each likely haunt, pondering on spots where they thought she had been, but which would not exactly justify a challenge.
While they were all thus busily employed, Rintoul’s shallow hat in the air intimated that the longed-for object was discerned, causing each man to get his horse by the head, and the foot-people to scramble towards him, looking anxiously forward and hurriedly back, lest any of the riders should be over them. Rintoul had put her away, and she was now travelling and stopping, and travelling and stopping, listening and wondering what was the matter. She had been coursed before but never hunted, and this seemed a different sort of proceeding.
The terror-striking notes of the hounds, as they pounced upon her empty form, with the twang of the horn and the cheers of the sportsmen urging them on, now caused her to start; and, laying back her long ears, she scuttled away over Bradfield Green and up Ridge Hill as hard as ever she could lay legs to the ground.
“Come along, Mr. Pringle! come along, Mr. Pringle!” cried the excited Major, spurring up, adjusting his whip as if he was going to charge into a solid square of infantry. He then popped through an open gate on the left.
The bustling beauties of hounds had now fallen into their established order of precedence, Lovely and Lilter contending for the lead, with Bustler and Bracelet, and Ruffler and Chaunter, and Ruin and Restless, and Dauntless and Driver, and Dancer and Flaunter and others striving after, some giving tongue because they felt the scent, others, because the foremost gave it.—So they went truthfully up the green and over the hill, a gap, a gate, and a lane serving the bustling horsemen.
The vale below was not quite so inviting to our “green linnets” as the country they had come from, the fields being small, with the fences as irregular as the counties appear on a map of England. There was none of that orderly squaring up and uniformity of size, that enables a roadster to trace the line of communication by gates through the country.—All was zigzag and rough, indicating plenty of blackthorns and briers to tear out their eyes. However, the Champagne was sufficiently alive in our sportsmen to prevent any unbecoming expression of fear, though there was a general looking about to see who was best acquainted with the country. Rintoul was now out of his district, and it required a man well up in the line to work them satisfactorily, that is to say, to keep them in their saddles, neither shooting them over their horses’ heads nor swishing them over their tails. Our friend Billy worked away on the grey, thinking, if anything, he liked him better than the bay. He even ventured to spur him.
The merry pack now swing musically down the steep hill, the chorus increasing as they reach the greener regions below. The fatties, and funkers, and ticklish forelegged ones, begin who-a-ing and g-e-e-ntly-ing to their screws, holding on by the pommels and cantrells, and keeping their nags’ heads as straight as they can. Old Wotherspoon alone gets off and leads down. He’s afraid of his horse slipping upon its haunches. The sight of him doing so emboldens our Billy, who goes resolutely on, and incautiously dropping his hand too soon, the grey shot away with an impetus that caused him to cannon off Broadfurrow and the Major and pocket himself in the ditch at the bottom of the hill. Great was the uproar! The Richest Commoner in England was in danger! Ten thousand a-year in jeopardy! “Throw yourself off!”
“Get clear of him!”
“Keep hold of him!”
“Mind he doesn’t strike ye!” resounded from all parts, as first the horse’s head went up, and then his tail, and then his head again, in his efforts to extricate himself.
At length Billy, seizing a favourable opportunity, threw himself off on the green sward, and, ere he could rise, the horse, making a desperate plunge, got out, and went staring away with his head in the air, looking first to the right and then to the left, as the dangling reins kept checking and catching him.
“Look sharp or you’ll loss him!” now cried old Duffield, as after an ineffectual snatch of the reins by a passing countryman, the horse ducked his head and went kicking and wriggling and frolicking away to the left, regardless of the tempting cry of the hounds.
The pace, of course, was too good for assistance—and our friend and the field were presently far asunder.
Whatever sport the hounds had—and of course they would have a clipper—we can answer for it Mr. Pringle had a capital run; for his horse led him a pretty Will-o’-the-wisp sort of dance, tempting him on and on by stopping to eat whenever his rider—or late rider, rather—seemed inclined to give up the chase, thus deluding him from field to lane and from lane to field until our hero was fairly exhausted.—Many were the rushes and dashes and ventures made at him by hedgers and ditchers and drainers, but he evaded them all by laying back his ears and turning the battery of his heels for the contemplation, as if to give them the choice of a bite or a kick.
At length he turned up the depths of the well-known Love Lane, with its paved trottoir, for the damsels of the adjoining hamlets of East and West Woodhay to come dry-shod to the gossip-shop of the well; and here, dressed in the almost-forgotten blue boddice and red petticoat of former days, stood pretty Nancy Bell, talking matrimonially to Giles Bacon, who had brought his team to a stand-still on the higher ground of the adjoining hedge, on the field above.
Hearing the clatter of hoofs, as the grey tried first the hard and then the soft of the lane, Bacon looked that way; and seeing a loose horse he jumped bodily into the lane, extending his arms and his legs and his eyes and his mouth in a way that was very well calculated to stop even a bolder animal than a horse. He became a perfect barrier. The grey drew up with an indignant snort and a stamp of his foot, and turning short round he trotted back, encountering in due time his agitated and indignant master, who had long been vowing what a trimming he would give him when he caught him. Seeing Billy in a hurry,—for animals are very good judges of mischief, as witness an old cock how he ducks when one picks up a stone,—seeing Billy in a hurry we say, the horse again wheeled about, and returned with more leisurely steps towards his first opponent. Bacon and Nancy were now standing together in the lane; and being more pleasantly occupied than thinking about loose horses, they just stood quietly and let him come towards them, when Giles’s soothing w-ho-o-ays and matter-of-course style beguiled the horse into being caught.
Billy presently came shuffling up, perspiring profusely, with his feet encumbered with mud, and stamping the thick of it off while he answered Bacon’s question as to “hoo it happened,” and so on, in the grumpy sort of way a man does who has lost his horse, he presented him with a shilling, and remounting, rode off, after a very fine run of at least twenty minutes.
The first thing our friend did when he got out of sight of Giles Bacon and Nancy, was to give his horse a good rap over the head with his whip for its impudent stupidity in running away, causing him to duck his head and shake it, as if he had got a pea or a flea in his ear.—He then began wheeling round and round, like a dog wanting to lie down, much to Billy’s alarm, for he didn’t wish for any more nonsense. That performance over, he again began ducking and shaking his head, and then went moodily on, as if indifferent to consequences. Billy wished he mightn’t have hit him so hard.
When he got home, he mentioned the horse’s extraordinary proceedings to the Major, who, being a bit of a vet. and a strong suspector of Sir Moses’ generosity to boot, immediately set it down to the right cause—megrims—and advised Billy to return him forthwith, intimating that Sir Moses was not altogether the thing in the matter of horses; but our friend, who kept the blow with the whip to himself, thought he had better wait a day or two and see if the attack would go off.—In this view he was upheld by Jack Rogers, who thought his old recipe, “leetle drop gin,” would set him all right, and proceeded to administer it to himself accordingly. And the horse improved so much that he soon seemed himself again, whereupon Billy, recollecting Sir Moses’s strenuous injunctions to give him the refusal of him if ever he wanted to part with him, now addressed him the following letter:—
“Yammerton Grange.
“Dear Sir Moses,
“As I find I must return to town immediately after the hunt ball, to which you were so good as invite me, and as the horse you were so good as give me would be of no use to me there, I write, in compliance with my promise to offer him back to you if ever I wanted to part with him, to say that he will be quite at your service after our next day’s hunting, or before if you like, as I dare say the Major will mount me if I require it. He is a very nice horse, and I feel extremely obliged for your very handsome intentions with regard to him, which, under other circumstances, I should have been glad to accept. Circumstanced as I am, however, he would be wasted upon me, and will be much better back in your stud.
“I will, therefore, send him over on hearing from you; and you can either put my I.O.U. in the fire, or enclose it to me by the Post.
“Again thanking you for your very generous offer, and hoping you are having good sport, I beg to subscribe myself,
“Dear Sir Moses,
“Yours very truly,
“Wm. PRINGLE
“To Sir Moses Mainchance, Bart.,
“Pangburn Park.”
And having sealed it with the great seal of state, he handed it to Rougier to give to the postman, without telling his host what he had done.
The next post brought the following answer:—
“Many, very many thanks to you, my dear Pringle, for your kind recollection of me with regard to the grey, which I assure you stamps you in my opinion as a most accurate and excellent young man.—You are quite right in your estimate of my opinion of the horse; indeed, if I had not considered him something very far out of the common way, I should not have put him into your hands; but knowing him to be as good as he’s handsome, I had very great satisfaction in placing him with you, as well on your own account as from your being the nephew of my old and excellent friend and brother baronet, Sir Jonathan Pringle—to whom I beg you to make my best regards when you write.
“Even were it not so, however, I should be precluded from accepting your kind and considerate offer for only yesterday I sent Wetun into Doubleimupshire, to bring home a horse I’ve bought of Tom Toweler, on Paul Straddler’s recommendation, being, as I tell Paul, the last I’ll ever buy on his judgment, unless he turns out a trump, as he has let me in for some very bad ones.
“But, my dear Pringle, ain’t you doing yourself a positive injustice in saying that you would have no use for the grey in town? Town, my dear fellow, is the very place for a horse of that colour, figure, and pretension; and a very few turns in the Park, with you on his back, before that best of all pennyworths, the chair-sitting swells, might land you in the highest ranks of the aristocracy—unless, indeed, you are booked elsewhere, of which, perhaps, I have no business to inquire.
“I may, however, as a general hint, observe to the nephew of my old friend, that the Hit-im and Hold-imshire Mammas don’t stand any nonsense, so you will do well to be on your guard. No; take my advice, my dear fellow, and ride that horse in town.—It will only be sending him to Tat.‘s if you tire of him there, and if it will in any way conduce to your peace of mind, and get rid of any high-minded feeling of obligation, you can hand me over whatever you get for him beyond the £50 —And that reminds me, as life is uncertain, and it is well to do everything regularly, I’ll send my agent, Mr. Mordecai Nathan, over with your I.O.U., and you can give me a bill at your own date—say two or three months—instead, and that will make us all right and square, and, I hope, help to maintain the truth of the old adage, that short reckonings make long friends,—which I assure you is a very excellent one.
“And now, having exhausted both my paper and subject, I shall conclude with repeating my due appreciation of your kind recollection of my wishes; and with best remembrances to your host and hostess, not forgetting their beautiful daughters, whom I hope to see in full feather at the ball, I remain,
“My dear Pringle.
“Very truly and sincerely, yours,
“Moses Mainchance.
“To Wm. Pringle”
We need scarcely add that Mr. Mordecai Nathan followed quickly on the heels of the letter, and that the I. 0. U. became a short-winded bill of exchange, thus saddling our friend permanently with the gallant grey. And when Major Yammerton heard the result, all the consolation Billy got from him was, “I told you so,” meaning that he ought to have taken his advice, and returned the horse as unsound.
With this episode about the horse, let us return to Pangburn Park.
SIR Moses was so fussy about his clothes, sending to the laundry for this shirt and that, censuring the fold of this cravat and that, inquiring after his new hunting ties and best boots, that Mrs. Margerum began to fear the buxom widow, Mrs. Vivian, was going to be at Lord Repartee’s, and that she might be saddled with that direst of all dread inflictions to an honest conscientious housekeeper, a teasing, worreting, meddling mistress. That is a calamity which will be best appreciated by the sisterhood, and those who watch how anxiously “widowers and single gentlemen” places are advertised for in the newspapers, by parties who frequently, not perhaps unaptly, describe themselves as “thoroughly understanding their business.”
Sir Moses, indeed, carried out the deception well; for not only in the matter of linen, but in that of clothes also, was he equally particular, insisting upon having all his first-class daylight things brought out from their winter quarters, and reviewing them himself as they lay on the sofa, ere he suffered Mr. Bankhead to pack them.
At length they were sorted and passed into the capacious depths of an ample brown leather portmanteau, and the key being duly turned and transferred to the Baronet, the package itself was chucked into the dog-cart in the unceremonious sort of way luggage is always chucked about. The vehicle itself then came to the door, and Sir Moses having delivered his last injunctions about the hounds and the horses, and the line of coming to cover so as to avoid public-houses, he ascended and touching the mare gently with the whip, trotted away amid the hearty—“well shut of yous” of the household. Each then retired to his or her private pursuits; some to drink, some to gamble, some to write letters, Mrs. Margerum, of course, to pick up the perquisites. Sir Moses, meanwhile, bowled away ostentatiously through the lodges, stopping to talk to everybody he met, and saying he was going away for the night.
Bonmot Park, the seat of Lord Repartee, stands about the junction of Hit-im and Hold-imshire, with Featherbedfordshire. Indeed, his great cover of Tewington Wood is neutral between the hunts, and the best way to the park on wheels, especially in winter time, is through Hinton and Westleak, which was the cause of Sir Moses hitting upon it for his deception, inasmuch as he could drive into the Fox and Hounds Hotel; and at Hinton, under pretence of baiting his mare without exciting suspicion, and there make his arrangements for the night. Accordingly, he took it very quietly after he got clear of his own premises, coveting rather the shades of evening that he had suffered so much from before, and as luck would have it by driving up Skinner Lane, instead of through Nelson Street, he caught a back view of Paul Straddler, as for the twenty-third time that worthy peeped through the panes of Mrs. Winship, the straw-bonnet maker’s window in the market-place, at a pretty young girl she had just got from Stownewton. Seeing his dread acquaintance under such favourable circumstances, Sir Moses whipped Whimpering Kate on, and nearly upset himself against the kerb-stone as he hurried up the archway of the huge deserted house,—the mare’s ringing hoofs alone, announcing his coming.
Ostler! Ostler! Ostler! cried he in every variety of tone, and at length the crooked-legged individual filling that and other offices, came hobbling and scratching his head to the summons. Sir Moses alighting then, gave him the reins and whip; and wrapper in hand, proceeded to the partially gas-lit door in the archway, to provide for himself while the ostler looked after the mare.
Now, it so happened, that what with bottle ends and whole bottles, and the occasional contributions of the generous, our friend Peter the waiter was even more inebriated than he appears at page 263; and the rumbling of gig-wheels up the yard only made him waddle into the travellers’ room, to stir the fire and twist up a bit of paper to light the gas, in case it was any of the despised brotherhood of the road.—He thought very little of bagmen—Mr. Customer was the man for his money. Now, he rather expected Mr. Silesia, Messrs. Buckram the clothiers’ representative, if not Mr. Jaconette, the draper’s also, about this time; and meeting Sir Moses hurrying in top-coated and cravated with the usual accompaniments of the road, he concluded it was one of them; so capped him on to the commercial room with his dirty duster-holding hand.
“Get me a private room, Peter; get me a private room,” demanded the Baronet, making for the bottom of the staircase away from the indicated line of scent.
“Private room,” muttered Peter.
“Why, who is it?”
“Me! me!” exclaimed Sir Moses, thinking Peter would recognise him.
“Well, but whether are ye a tailor or a draper?” demanded Peter, not feeling inclined to give way to the exclusiveness of either.
“Tailor or draper! you stupid old sinner—don’t you see it’s me—me Sir Moses Mainchance?”
“Oh, Sir Moses, Sir, I beg your pardon, Sir,” stammered the now apologising Peter, hurrying back towards the staircase. “I really begs your pardon, Sir; but my eyes are beginning to fail me, Sir—not so good as they were when Mr. Customer hunted the country.—Well Sir Moses, Sir, I hope you’re well, Sir; and whether will you be in the Sun or the Moon? You can have a fire lighted in either in a minute, only you see we don’t keep fires constant no ways now, ‘cept in the commercial room.—Great change, Sir Moses, Sir, since Mr. Customer hunted the country; yes, Sir, great change—used to have fires in every room, Sir, and brandy and—”
“Well, but,” interrupted Sir Moses, “I can’t sit freezing up stairs till the fire’s burnt up.—You go and get it lighted, and come to me in the commercial-room and tell me when it’s ready; and here!” continued he, “I want some dinner in an hour’s time, or so.”
“By all means, Sir Moses. What would you like to take, Sir Moses?” as if there was everything at command.
Sir Moses—“Have you any soup?”
Peter—“Soup, Sir Moses. No, I don’t think there is any soup.”
Sir Moses—“Fish; have you any fish?”
Peter—“Why, no; I don’t think there’ll be any fish to-day, Sir Moses.”
Sir Moses—“What have you, then?”
Peter—(Twisting the dirty duster), “Mutton chops—beef steak—beef steak—mutton chops—boiled fowl, p’raps you’d like to take?”
Sir Moses—“No. I shouldn’t (muttering, most likely got to be caught and killed yet.) Tell the cook,” continued he, speaking up, “to make on a wood and coal fire, and to do me a nice dish of mutton chops on the gridiron; not in the frying-pan mind, all swimming in grease; and to boil some mealy potatoes.”
Peter—“Yes, Sir Moses; and what would you like to have to follow?”
“Cheese!” said Sir Moses, thinking to cut short the inquiry.
“And hark’e.” continued Sir Moses: Don’t make a great man of me by bringing out your old battered copper showing-dishes; but tell the cook to send the chops up hot and hot, between good warm crockery-ware plates, with ketchup or Harvey sauce for me to use as I like.”
“Yes, Sir Moses,” replied Peter, toddling off to deliver as much of the order as he could remember.
And Sir Moses having thawed himself at the commercial-room fire, next visited the stable to see that his mare had been made comfortable, and told the ostler post-boy boots to be in the way, as he should most likely want him to take him out in the fly towards night. As he returned, he met Bessey Bannister, the pretty chambermaid, now in the full glow of glossy hair and crinoline, whom he enlisted as purveyor of the mutton into the Moon, in lieu of the antiquated Peter, whose services he was too glad to dispense with.—It certainly is a considerable aggravation of the miseries of a country inn to have to undergo the familiarities of a dirty privileged old waiter.
So thought Sir Moses, as he enjoyed each succeeding chop, and complimented the fair maiden so on her agility and general appearance, that she actually dreamt she was about to become Lady Mainchance.
SIR Moses Mainchance, having fortified himself against the night air with a pint of club port, and a glass of pale brandy after his tea, at length ordered out the inn fly, without naming its destination to his fair messenger. These vehicles, now so generally scattered throughout the country, are a great improvement on the old yellow post-chaise, that made such a hole in a sovereign, and such a fuss in getting ready, holloaing, “Fust pair out!” and so on, to give notice to a smock-frocked old man to transform himself into a scarlet or blue jacketed post-boy by pulling off his blouse, and who, after getting a leg-up and a ticket for the first turnpike-gate, came jingling, and clattering, and cracking his dog-whip round to the inn door, attracting all the idlers and children to the spot, to see who was going to get into the “chay.” The fly rumbles quietly round without noise or pretension, exciting no curiosity in any one’s mind; for it is as often out as in, and may only be going to the next street, or to Woodbine Lodge, or Balsam Bower, on the outskirts of the town, or for an hour’s airing along the Featherbedfordshire or the old London road. It does not even admit of a pull of the hair as a hint to remember the ostler as he stands staring in at the window, the consequence of which is, that the driver is generally left to open the door for his passenger himself. Confound those old iniquities of travelling!—a man used never to have his hand out of his pocket. Let not the rising generation resuscitate the evil, by contravening the salutary regulation of not paying people on railways.
Sir Moses hearing the sound of wheels, put on his wraps; and, rug in hand, proceeded quietly down stairs, accompanied only by the fair Bessy Bannister, instead of a flight of dirty waiters, holloaing “Coming down! coming down! now then! look sharp!” and so on.
The night was dark, but the ample cab-lamps threw a gleam over the drab and red lined door that George Beer the driver held back in his hand to let his customer in.
“Good night, my dear,” said Sir Moses, now slyly squeezing Miss Bannister’s hand, wondering why people hadn’t nice clean quiet-stepping women to wait upon them, instead of stuck-up men, who thought to teach their masters what was right, who wouldn’t let them have their plate-warmers in the room, or arrange their tables according to their own desires.—With these and similar reflections he then dived head-foremost into the yawning abyss of a vehicle. “Bang” went the door, and Beer then touched the side of his hat for instructions where to go to.
“Let me see,” said Sir Moses, adjusting his rug, as if he hadn’t quite made up his mind. “Let me see—oh, ah! drive me northwards, and I’ll tell you further when we stop at the Slopewell turnpike-gate:” so saying Sir Moses drew up the gingling window, Beer mounted the box, and away the old perpetual-motion horse went nodding and knuckling over the uneven cobble-stone pavement, varying the motion with an occasional bump and jump at the open channels of the streets. Presently a smooth glide announced the commencement of Macadam, and shortly after the last gas-lamp left the road to darkness and to them. All was starlight and serene, save where a strip of newly laid gravel grated against the wheels, or the driver objurgated a refractory carter for not getting out of his way. Thus they proceeded at a good, steady, plodding sort of pace, never relaxing into a walk, but never making any very vehement trot.
At the Slopewell gate Sir Moses told Beer to take a ticket for the Winterton Burn one; arrived at which, he said, “Now go on and stop at the stile leading into the plantation, about half a mile on this side of my lodges,” adding, “I’ll walk across the park from there;” in obedience to which the driver again plied his whip along the old horse’s ribs, and in due time the vehicle drew up at the footpath along-side the plantation.—The door then opened, Sir Moses alighted and stood waiting while the man turned his fly round and drove off, in order to establish his night eyes ere he attempted the somewhat intricate passage through the plantation to his house.
The night, though dark, was a good deal lighter than it appeared among the gloom of the houses and the glare of the gaslights at Hinton; and if he was only well through the plantation, Sir Moses thought he should not have much difficulty with the rest of the way. So conning the matter over in his mind, thinking whereabouts the boards over the ditch were, where the big oak stood near which the path led to the left, he got over the stile, and dived boldly into the wood.
The Baronet made a successful progress, and emerged upon the open space of Coldnose, just as the night breeze spread the twelve o’clock notes of his stable clock through the frosty air, upon the quiet country.
“All right,” said he to himself, sounding his repeater to ascertain the hour, as he followed the tortuous track of the footpath, through cowslip pasture, over the fallow and along the side of the turnip field; he then came to the turn from whence in daylight the first view of the house is obtained.
A faint light glimmered in the distance, about where he thought the house would be situate.
“Do believe that’s her room,” said Sir Moses, stopping and looking at the light. “Do believe that’s her signal for beloved Anthony Thom. If I catch the young scoundrel,” continued he, hurrying on, “I’ll—I’ll—I’ll break every bone in his skin.” With this determination, Sir Moses put on as fast as the now darker lower ground would allow, due regard being had to not missing his way.
At length he came to the cattle hurdles that separated the east side of the park from the house, climbing over which he was presently among the dark yews and hollies, and box-bushes of the shrubbery. He then paused to reconnoitre.—The light was still there.—If it wasn’t Mrs. Margerum’s room, it was very near it; but he thought it was hers by the angle of the building and the chimneys at the end. What should he do?—Throw a pebble at the window and try to get her to lower what she had, or wait and see if he could take Anthony Thom, cargo and all? The night was cold, but not sufficiently so, he thought, to stop the young gentleman from coming, especially if he had his red worsted comforter on; and as Sir Moses threw his rug over his own shoulders, he thought he would go for the great haul, at all events; especially as he felt he could not converse with Mrs. Margerum à la Anthony Thom, should she desire to have a little interchange of sentiment. With this determination he gathered his rug around him, and proceeded to pace a piece of open ground among the evergreens, like the Captain of a ship walking the quarter-deck, thinking now of his money, now of his horses, now of Miss Bannister, and now of the next week’s meets of his hounds.—He had not got half through his current of ideas when a footstep sounded upon the gravel-walk; and, pausing in his career, Sir Moses distinctly recognised the light patter of some one coming towards him. He down to charge like a pointer to his game, and as the sound ceased before the light-showing window, Sir Moses crept stealthily round among the bushes, and hid behind a thick ground-sweeping yew, just as a rattle of peas broke upon the panes.
The sash then rose gently, and Sir Moses participated in the following conversation:—
Mrs. Margerum (from above)—“O, my own dearly beloved Anthony Thom, is that you, darling! But don’t, dear, throw such big ‘andfulls, or you’ll be bricking the winder.”
Master Anthony Thom (from below)—“No, mother; only I thought you might be asleep.”
Mrs. Margerum—“Sleep, darling, and you coming! I never sleep when my own dear Anthony Thom is coming! Bless your noble heart! I’ve been watching for you this—I don’t know how long.”
Master Anthony Thom—“Couldn’t get Peter Bateman’s cuddy to come on.”
Mrs. Margerum—“And has my Anthony Thom walked all the way?”
Master Anthony Thom—“No; I got a cast in Jackey Lishman the chimbley-sweep’s car as far as Burnfoot Bridge. I’ve walked from there.”
Mrs. Margerum—“Bless his sweet heart! And had he his worsted comforter on?”
Master Anthony Thom—“Yes; goloshes and all.”
Mrs. Margerum—“Ah, goloshes are capital things. They keep the feet, warm, and prevent your footsteps from being heard. And has my Anthony Thom got the letter I wrote to him at the Sun in the Sands?”
Master Anthony Thom—“No, never heard nothin’ of it.”
Mrs. Margerum—“No! Why what can ha’ got it?”
Master Anthony Thom—“Don’t know.—Makes no odds.—I got the things all the same.”
Mrs. Margerum—“O, but my own dear Anthony Thom, but it does. Mr. Gerge Gallon says it’s very foolish for people to write anything if they can ‘elp it—they should always send messages by word of mouth. Mr. Gallon is a man of great intellect, and I’m sure what he says is right, and I wish I had it back.”
Master Anthony Thom—“O, it’ll cast up some day, I’ll be bound.—It’s of no use to nobody else.”
Mrs. Margerum—“I hope so, my dear. But it is not pleasant to think other folks may read what was only meant for my own Anthony Thom. However, it’s no use crying over spilt milk, and we must manish better another time. So now look out, my beloved, and I’ll lower what I have.”
So saying, a grating of cord against the window-sill announced a descent, and Master Anthony Thom, grasping the load, presently cried, “All right!”
Mrs. Margerum,—“It’s not too heavy for you, is it, dear?” Master Anthony Thom (hugging the package)—“O, no; I can manish it. When shall I come again, then, mother?” asked he, preparing to be off.
Mrs. Margerum—“Oh, bless your sweet voice, my beloved. When shall you come again, indeed? I wish I could say very soon; but, dearest, it’s hardly safe, these nasty pollis fellers are always about, besides which, I question if old Nosey may be away again before the ball; and as he’ll be all on the screw for a while, to make up for past expense, I question it will be worth coming before then. So, my own dear Anthony Thom, s’pose we say the ball night, dear, about this time o’ night, and get a donkey to come on as far as the gates, if you can, for I dread the fatigue; and if you could get a pair of panniers, so much the better, you’d ride easier, and carry your things better, and might have a few fire-bricks or hearth-stones to put at the top, to pretend you were selling them, in case you were stopped—which, however, I hope won’t be the case, my own dear; but you can’t be too careful, for it’s a sad, sinful world, and people don’t care what they say of their neighbours. So now, my own dearest Anthony Thom, good night, and draw your worsted comforter close round your throat, for colds are the cause of half our complaints, and the night air is always to be dreaded; and take care that you don’t overheat yourself, but get a lift as soon as you can, only mind who it is with, and don’t say you’ve been here, and be back on the ball night. So good night, my own dearest Anthony Thom, and take care of yourself whatever you do, for——”
“Good night, mother,” now interrupted Anthony Thom, adjusting the bundle under his arm, and with repeated “Good night, my own dearest,” from her, he gave it a finishing jerk, and turning round, set off on his way rejoicing.
Sir Moses was too good a sportsman to holloa before his game was clear of the cover; and he not only let Anthony Thom’s footsteps die out on the gravel-walk, but the sash of Mrs. Margerum’s window descend ere he withdrew from his hiding-place and set off in pursuit. He then went tip-toeing along after him, and was soon within hearing of the heavily laden lad.
“Anthony Thom, my dear! Anthony Thom,” whispered he, coming hastily upon him as he now turned the corner of the house.
Anthony Thom stopped, and trembling violently exclaimed, “O Mr. Gallon, is it you?”
“Yes, my dear, it’s me,” replied Sir Moses, adding, “you’ve got a great parcel, my dear; let me carry it for you,” taking it from him as he spoke.
“Shriek! shriek! scream!” now went the terrified Thom, seeing into whose hands he had fallen. “O you dom’d young rascal,” exclaimed Sir Moses, muffling him with his wrapper,—“I’ll draw and quarter you if you make any noise. Come this way, you young miscreant!” added he, seizing him by the worsted comforter and dragging him along past the front of the house to the private door in the wall, through which Sir Moses disappeared when he wanted to evade Mon s. Rougier’s requirements for his steeple-chase money.
That passed, they were in the stable-yard, now silent save the occasional stamp of the foot or roll of the halter of some horse that had not yet lain down. Sir Moses dragged his victim to the door in the corner leading to the whipper-in’s bedroom, which, being open, he proceeded to grope his way up stairs. “Harry! Joe! Joe! Harry!” holloaed he, kicking at the door.
Now, Harry was away, but Joe was in bed; indeed he was having a hunt in his sleep, and exclaimed as the door at length yielded to the pressure of Sir Moses’ foot. “‘Od rot it! Don’t ride so near the hounds, man!”
“Joe!” repeated Sir Moses, making up to the corner from whence the sound proceeded. “Joe! Joe!” roared he still louder.
“O, I beg your pardon! I’ll open the gate!” exclaimed Joe, now throwing off the bed-clothes and bounding vigorously on to the floor.
“Holloa!” exclaimed he, awaking and rubbing his eyes. “Holloa! who’s there?”
“Me,” said Sir Moses, “me,”—adding: “Don’t make a row, but strike a light as quick as you can; I’ve got a bag fox I want to show you.”
“Bag fox, have you?” replied Joe, now recognising his master’s voice, making for the mantel-piece and feeling for the box. “Bag fox, have you? Dreamt we were in the middle of a run from Ripley Coppice, and that I couldn’t get old Crusader over the brook at no price.” He then hit upon the box, and with a scrape of a lucifer the room was illuminated.
Having lit a mould candle that stood stuck in the usual pint-bottle neck, Joe came with it in his hand to receive the instructions of his master.
“Here’s a dom’d young scoundrel I’ve caught lurking about the house,” said Sir Moses, pushing Anthony Thom towards him “and I want you to give him a good hiding.”
“Certainly, Sir Moses; certainly,” replied Joe, taking Anthony Thom by the ear as he would a hound, and looking him over amid the whining and whimpering and beggings for mercy of the boy.
“Why this is the young rascal that stole my Sunday shirt off Mrs. Saunders’s hedge!” exclaimed Joe, getting a glimpse of Anthony Thom’s clayey complexioned face.
“No, it’s not,” whined the boy. “No, it’s not. I never did nothin’ o’ the sort.”
“Nothin’ o’ the sort!” retorted Joe, “why there ain’t two hugly boys with hare lips a runnin’ about the country,” pulling down the red-worsted comforter, and exposing the deformity as he spoke.
“It’s you all over,” continued he, seizing a spare stirrup leather, and proceeding to administer the buckle-end most lustily. Anthony Thom shrieked and screamed, and yelled and kicked, and tried to bite; but Joe was an able practitioner, and Thom could never get a turn at him.
Having finished one side, Joe then turned him over, and gave him a duplicate beating on the other side.
“There! that’ll do: kick him down stairs!” at length cried Sir Moses, thinking Joe had given him enough; and as the boy went bounding head foremost down, he dropped into his mother’s arms, who, hearing his screams, had come to the rescue.
Joe and his master then opened the budget and found the following goods:—
2 lb. of tea, 1 bar of brown soap in a dirty cotton night-cap, marked C. F.; doubtless, as Sir Moses said, one of Cuddy Flintoff’s.
“Dom all such dripping,” said Sir Moses, as he desired Joe to carry the things to the house. “No wonder that I drank a great deal of tea,” added he, as Joe gathered them together.
“Who the deuce would keep house that could help it?” muttered Sir Moses, proceeding on his way to the mansion, thinking what a trouncing he would give Mrs. Margerum ere he turned her out of doors.
1 lb. of coffee
3 lb. of brown sugar
3 lb. of starch
1 lb. of currants
1 lb. of rushlights
1 roll of cocoa
2 oz. of nutmegs
1 lb. of mustard
1 bar of pale soap
1 lb. of orange peel
1 bottle of capers
1 quail of split pras