CHAPTER XIV

MR. JORROCKS AND HIS SECRETARY

“SEND my Sec. here,” said Mr. Jorrocks, with great dignity, to Snubbins, the landlord of the “Dragon”; who, in compliance with Doleful’s directions, was waiting to receive his orders. “Send my Sec. here,” he repeated, seeing the man did not catch what he said.

“Your Sec., Sir,” repeated the landlord, “it’ll be your boy, I presume?” turning to the waiter, and desiring him to send the ostler to stand by the horses’ heads while Mr. Jorrocks’s boy came upstairs.

“No, not my bouy,” replied Mr. Jorrocks with a frown, “so you presumes wrong.”

“Your maid, then?” inquired the sharp waiter, thinking to hit what his master had missed.

“No, nor my maid neither,” was the worthy grocer’s answer,—“what I want is my Sec., the Secretary to my ’unt in fact.”

“Oh! the Secretary to the hunt, that will be Mr. Fleeceall,” rejoined the landlord with a grin of satisfaction.—“Run up to Lavender Lane, and tell Mr. Fleeceall that Mr. Jorrocks has arrived, and wishes to see him.”

“Tell him to come directly,” said Mr. Jorrocks, adding, in a mutter, “I dosen’t understand why he’s not here to receive me. Fatch me up a glass of cold sherry negus with.—Public speakin’ makes one werry dry.”

Before the with was well dissolved, so as to enable our hero to quench his thirst at a draught, our one-eyed friend entered the room, hat in hand, and presented himself to Mr. Jorrocks.

“Now I wants to see you about my ’ounds,” said Mr. Jorrocks, with an air of authority.—“Where are they?”

“Some, I believe, are in the kennel, others are in the Vale with the various farmers,” replied Mr. Fleeceall.

“Some in the Wale!” repeated Mr. Jorrocks with surprise, “vy aren’t they all in kennel? you surely knew I was a comin’, and ought not to have had things in this hugger-mugger state.—Whose fault is it? Where’s the kennel-book?”

“The kennel-book?” repeated Mr. Fleeceall with surprise.

“Yes, the kennel-book; you know what that is, surely—the list of the ’ounds. in fact.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon—I don’t think there is any regular kennel-book—at least I never had one—all that I do is to receive the subscriptions,—write to gentlemen that are in arrear, or are likely to subscribe,—tax poultry bills,—and prevent extortion in general.”

“Well, all werry useful in its way,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, “but a secretary to an ’unt is expected to know all about the ’ounds too, and everything besides—at least he’s no Sec. for me if he don’t,” added he, his eyes sparking with animation as he spoke.

“Oh, I do,” replied Mr. Fleeceall with trepidation, “only Captain Doleful has had all our people so busy, preparing for your reception, that we really have not been able at so short a notice to make our arrangements so perfect as we could wish. I know all the hounds well.”

“Then put on your ’at and come with me to the kennel. It’s full moon to-night, so we needn’t mind about time.”

Fleeceall hesitated, but seeing Mr. Jorrocks was resolute, he put a good face on the matter, and boldly led the way. As he piloted Mr. Jorrocks through sundry short cuts, he contrived to insinuate, in a casual sort of way, that things would not be in such apple-pie order as he might expect, but that a day or two would put everything right. Calling at Mat Maltby’s for the key of the kennel, he enlisted young Mat into the service, desiring him to stand by and prompt him what to say; he very soon had the new master before the rails of the kennel. The hounds raised a melodious cry as they jumped against the paling, or placed themselves before the door, and anger flew from Mr. Jorrocks’s mind at the cheerful sound. “Get back, hounds! get back! Bonney-bell, have a care!” cried Mat, as they pushed against the door, and prevented it opening. “Perhaps you’ll take a switch, sir,” said he, turning to Mr. Jorrocks, and handing a hazel-rod from a line hanging on the rails beside the door. “Get back, hounds!” again he cried, and inserting his right hand with a heavy double-thonged whip through an aperture between the door and the post, he loosened the thong, and sweeping it round among their legs, very soon cleared a space so as to enable the master to enter. Mr. Jorrocks then strutted in.

The kennel was quite of the primitive order, but dry and airy withal. It consisted of two rooms, while the feeding-troughs in the half-flagged yard showed that the hounds dined out of doors. A temporary boiling-house was placed behind, and the whole of the back part adjoined close upon the New Ebenezer Chapel.

Great was Mr. Jorrocks’s surprise and indignation at finding that the pack was without a huntsman, whipperin, or horses.

He was perfectly thunderstruck, and it was some time ere his rage suffered his tongue to give vent to his thoughts.

It was a “reg’lar do,” and he’d “wesh his ’ands of the concern at once.” He’d “shoot Doleful first though—skin him alive in fact.”

Fleeceall attempted to soothe him, but finding he was only adding fuel to the fire, he suffered his anger to exhaust itself on the unfortunate and now luckily absent Captain. Mr. Jorrocks was very wroth, but considering how far he had gone, and how he would be laughed at if he backed out, he determined to let it be “over shoes over boots,” so he stuck out his legs and proceeded to examine the hounds.

“Plenty of bone,” observed he, with a growl.

“Oh, lots of bones!” replied Fleeceall, “that corner’s full,” pointing to the bone-house.

“Are they steady?” inquired Mr. Jorrocks.

“Middling,” replied Fleeceall, anxious to be safe.

“Vot, they’re not riotous, are they? Never ’unted bagmen or nothin’ of that sort?” inquired our master.

“Oh dear no,” replied Fleeceall, “ran a boy, I believe, one day.”

“Ran a boy,” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, “never heard of sich a thing! He must have had a drag.”

“They bit his drag,” replied Fleeceall, laughing.

“It were a young hound bit an old ’ooman,” interposed Mat, anxious for the credit of the pack; “he had a bone, and she would have it from him, and the boy got atween the two.”

“Humph!” grunted Mr. Jorrocks, not altogether relishing the story whichever way it was. The hounds were a fine lashing-looking lot, chiefly dogs, with a strong family likeness running through the pack. There were few old ones, and the lot were fairly average. Worse packs are to be found in great kennels. Mr. Jorrocks remained with them until he had about mastered their names, and there appearing no help for the matter, he resolved to do the best he could with his boy until he could meet with a huntsman.—Ordering the feeder to be there by daybreak, and have the hounds ready for him to take out to exercise, he thrust his arm through Fleeceall’s and desired him to conduct him back to the “Dragon.”

As they went he lectured him well on the duties of his office. “Now, you see, sir,” said he, “I dosn’t want one of your fine auditin’ sort of Secs., what will merely run his eye over the bills, and write his initials on the back, right or wrong, as many do, but I wants a real out-and-out workin’ chap, that will go into them, hitem by hitem, and look sharp ater the pence, without leavin’ the pounds to take care of themselves. A good Sec. is a werry useful sort of h’animal, but a bad un’s only worth ’anging. In the first place you must be werry particklar about gettin’ in the subscriptions. That is always uppermost in a good Sec.’s mind, and he should never stir out of doors without a list in his pocket, and should appear at the coverside with a handful of receipts, by way of a hint to wot havn’t paid. Now, you must get an account book with ruled columns for pounds, shillings, and pence, and open a Dr. and Cr. account with every man Jack on ’em. You can’t do better nor follow the example o’ the Leamington lads, who string up all the tradespeople with the amount of their subscriptions in the shops and public places. It’s clearly the duty of every man to subscribe to a pack of ’ounds—even if he has to borrow the money. ‘No tick,’ mind, must be the order of the day; and every Saturday night you must come to me with your book, and I shall allow you two glasses of spirit and water whilst we overhaul the accounts. You must be all alive, in fact. Not an ’oss must die in the district without your knowin’ of it—you must ’ave the nose of a wultur, with the knowledge of a knacker. Should you make an ’appy ’it (hit) and get one with some go in him, I’ll let you use him yourself until we wants him for the boiler. In the field, a good Sec. ought always to be ready to leap first over any awkward place, or catch the M.F.H.’s ’oss, if he ’appens to lead over. In all things he must consider the M.F.H. first, and never let self stand in the way. Then you’ll be a good Sec., and when I dosn’t want a Sec. no longer, why you’ll always be able to get a good Sec.’s place from the character I shall give you.

“Now, here we are at the ‘Dragon’ again.—Come up-stairs and I’ll make you acquainted with your missis,” saying which, Mr. Jorrocks led the way, and was met on the landing by the knock-kneed, greasy-collared waiter, who ushered them into the room, where Mrs. Jorrocks and Belinda, fatigued with the doings of the day, had laid themselves down on a couple of sofas, waiting for the return of Mr. Jorrocks to have their tea.

“This be my Sec.,” said Mr. Jorrocks to his spouse, with the air of a man introducing a party for whom there is no occasion to put oneself out of the way. Mrs. Jorrocks, who had bolted up at the opening of the door, gave a sort of half bow, and rubbing her eyes and yawning, very quietly settled herself again on the sofa. Tea passed away, when the ladies having retired, Mr. Jorrocks and Fleeceall very soon found out that they had a taste in common, viz.—a love of brandy and water, wherewith they sat diluting themselves until the little hours of the morning, in the course of which carouse, Fleeceall dexterously managed to possess himself of every particle of his worthy patron’s history and affairs. How much he had in the funds, how much in Exchequer bills, how much in railways, and how much in the Globe Insurance Office.

A page or two from Mr. Jorrocks’s Journal, which he has kindly placed at our disposal, will perhaps best elucidate the doings of the early days of his reign over the Handley Cross fox-hounds.

“Saturday. — Awoke with desperation ’ead ach—‘Dragon’ brandy carn’t be good—Dreamed the Lilyvite-sand train had run off with me, and chucked me into the channel—Called to Binjimin—the boy snorin’ sound asleep!—only think, snorin’ sound asleep, the werry mornin’ after comin’ down to whip into a pack of fox-’ounds—fear he has no turn for the chase. Pulled his ears, and axed him what he was snorin’ for. Swore he wasn’t snorin’! Never heard a boy of his size tell such a lie in my life. Rigged for ’unting, only putting on my hat ’stead of my cap,—and on ’orseback by daylight—Xerxes full of fun—Arterxerxes dullish—Bin. rode the latter, in his new tops and spurs—‘Now,’ said I to Bin. as we rode to the kennel, ‘you are hentering upon a most momentous crisis—If you apply yourself diligently and assiduously to your callin’, and learn to be useful in kennel, and to cheer the ’ounds with a full melodious woice—such a woice, in fact, as the tall lobster-merchant with the green plush breeches and big calves, that comes along our street of a still evenin’, with his basket on his ’ead, cryin’ ‘Lob-sters! fine Lob-sters!’ has, there is no sayin’ but in course of time you may arrive at the distinguished ’onour of readin’ an account of your doin’s in Bell’s Life or the Field; but if you persist in playin’ at marbles, chuck farthin’, and flyin’ kites, ’stead of attendin’ in the stable, I’ll send you back to the charity school from whence you came, where you’ll be rubbed down twice a day with an oak towel, and kept on chick-weed and grunsell like a canary bird,—mark my words if I von’t.’

“Found Mat Maltby at the kennel weshin’ the flags with a new broom, and ’issing for ’ard life—wery curious it is, wet or dry, soft or ’ard, these chaps always ’iss. ’Ounds all delighted to see me—stood up in my stirrups looking over the rails, ’olloain’, cheerin’, and talkin’ to them. Yoicks Dexterous! Yoicks Luckey-lass! Yoicks Rallywood! Good dog. Threw bits of biscuit as near each of them as I could pitch them, callin’ the ’ounds by name, to let them see that I knew them—Some caught it in their mouths like Hindian jugglers—‘Let ’em out, Mat,’ at last cried I, when back went the bolt, open went the door, and out they rushed full cry, like a pent-up ’urricane, tearin’ down Hexworthy Street into Jireth Place, through Mornington Crescent, by the Bramber Promenade into the High Street, and down it with a crash and melody of sweet music that roused all the old water-drinkin’ maids from their pillows, galvanised the watchmen, astonished the gas-light man, who was making way for daylight, and reg’larly rousing the whole inhabitants of the place.

“Clapt spurs to Xerxes and arter them, holloain’ and crackin’ my whip, but deuce a bit did they ’eed me—on they went! sterns up and ’eads too, towlin’, and howlin’, and chirpin’, as though they had a fox afore them. Butchers’ dogs, curs, setters, mastiffs, mongrels of all sorts and sizes, flew out as they went, some joinin’ cry, others worryin’ and fightin’ their way, but still the body of the pack kept movin’ onward at a splittin’ pace, down the London Road, as wild as hawks, without turning to the right or the left, until they all flew, like a flock of pigeons, clean out of sight. ‘Oh, dear! oh, dear!’ cried I, pullin’ up, fairly exhausted, at the third mile stone, by the cross-roads from Cadger’s House and Knowlton, ‘I’ve lost my ’ounds, and I’m ruined for ever.’ ‘Blow your ’orn!’ cried a countryman who was sittin’ on the stone, ‘they are not far afore you, and the dogs not far afore them:’ but blow me tight, I was so blown myself, that I couldn’t raise a puff—easier to blow one’s ’orse than one’s ’orn. To add to my grief and infinite mortification, Binjimin came poundin’ and clatterin’ along the hard road, holloain’ out as he went, ‘Buy Lob-ster-r! fine Lob-ster-r-r!’

“The pack had turned down Greenford Lane, and I jogged after them, sorely puzzled, and desperate perplexed. On I went for a mile or more, when the easterly breeze bore the ’ounds’ cry on its wings, and pushin’ forward, I came to a corner of the road, where the beauties had thrown up short before ar Italian plaster of Paris poll-parrot merchant, who, tray on head, had the whole pack at bay around him, bellowin’ and howlin’ as though they would eat him. ‘Get round them, Binjimin,’ cried I, ‘and flog them away to me,’ and takin’ out my ’orn, I blew for ’ard life, and what with view halloas, and cheerin’, and coaxin’, with Bin. at their sterns, succeeded in gettin’ most of them back to their kennel. Plaster of Paris poll-parrot merchant followed all the way, indulgin’ in frightful faces and an unknown tongue.”

The Journal then branches off into a mem. of what he did at breakfast in the eating line, how he paid his bill at the “Dragon,” after disputing the brandy items, adding that though attendance was charged in the bill, the servants all evinced a disposition to shake hands with him at parting, which he thought was making matters worse instead of better. He also recorded how he moved to Diana Lodge, which he did not find quite so commodious as he expected. The day’s entry closes with a mem. that he had stewed beef-steaks for dinner.

“Sunday.—Up by cock-crow, and into the kennel. Dexterous and Mercury been fightin’ about a bone, and Mercury got a bloody ear. Lector’d Bin. and Matt upon the unpropriety of leavin’ bones about. Made Bin. call over the ’ounds by name, double-thongin’ him when he made a mistake.

“Mrs. Jorrocks in a desperation fidget to get to church. Never know’d her so keen afore. Secret out—got a new gown, and a bonnet like a market gardener’s flower-basket. With all her keenness contrived to start just as the bells gave over ringin’—Beadle, in blue and gold, with a cocked ’at on his head, and a white wand in his hand, received us at the door, and handed us over to the sexton, in deep blue, bound with black velvet, who paraded us up the ’isle, and placed us with much clatterin’ in the seat of honour just afore the pulpit. Church desperate full, and every eye turned on the M.F.H.—Mrs. J. thought they were lookin’ at her! poor deluded body. Belinda, dressed in lavender, and lookin’ werry wholesome. Lessons long—sermon excellent—all about ’onering one’s superiors, meaning the M.F.H. doubtless.

“After church, friend Miserrimus came and shook ’ands with us all round. Gave him ‘unbounded pleasure’ to see us all so bloomin’ and well. Mrs. J. delighted, and axed him to dine. Five, and no waitin.’ Walked down High Street. Mrs. Jorrocks on one arm, Belinda on t’other. Doleful in the gutter. Fine thing to be a great man. Everybody stared—many took off their ’ats.—Country people got off the flags. ‘That’s Mr. Jorrocks,’ said one. ‘Which?’ cried another. ‘Do show him to me,’ begged a third. ‘Jorrocks for ever!’ cried the children. Nothing like being a great man. Kennel at two—feedin’ time—plaster of Paris poll-parrot merchant outside, still in a great rage, but didn’t catch what he said. Many people came and wondered how I knew the names of the ’ounds—all so much alike, they said, take them a lifetime to know them. Miserable ignoramusses.

“Monday.—At the kennel by daylight. Binjimin, as usual, to be kicked awake. The bouy seems to take no interest in the thing. Fear all the lickin’ in the world von’t drive a passion for the chase into him. Threatened to cut his coat into ribbons on his back, if he didn’t look lively. Mat Maltby recommended the ’ounds to be coupled this time—condescended to take his advice. Told Bin. not to cry ‘boil’d Lob-sters’ as he did on Saturday, but to sing out in a cheerful voice, rich and melodious, like the boiled-lobster merchant. Axed what to sing out? Why, ‘get on ’ounds,’ ven ’ounds ’ang (hang) back, and ‘gently there!’ when they gets too far forward, said I. Put Xerxes’s head towards kennel door this time, instead of from it. Worth a golden sovereign of any man’s money to see ’ounds turn out of kennel. Sich a cry! sich music! old Dexterous jumped up at Xerxes, and the hanimal all but kicked me over his ’ead. Pack gathered round me, some jumpin’ up against the ’oss’s side, others standin’ bayin’, and some lookin’ anxiously in my face, as much as to say, which way this time, Mr. Jorrocks? Took them a good long strong trot to the pike, near Smarden, and round by Billingbrook, letting them see the deer in Chidfold Park. Quite steady—make no doubt they will be a werry superior pack in less than no time—make them as handey as ladies’ maids, — do everything but pay their own pikes in fact. Wonder Doleful don’t ride out. Keen sportsman like him, one would think would like to see the ’ounds.”

The Journal proceeds in this strain for two or three days more, Mr. Jorrocks becoming better satisfied with his pack each time he had them out. On the Friday, he determined on having a bye-day on the following one, for which purpose he ordered his secretary to be in attendance, to show him a likely find in a country where he would not disturb many covers. Of course the meet was to be kept strictly private, and of course, like all “strict secrets,” Fleeceall took care to tell it to half the place. Still, as it was a “peep-of-day affair,” publicity did not make much matter, inasmuch as few of the Handley Cross gentry loved hunting better than their beds.

Fleeceall’s situation was rather one of difficulty, for he had never been out hunting but once, and that once was in a gig, as related in a preceding chapter; but knowing, as Dr. Johnson said, that there are “two sorts of information, one that a man carries in his head, and the other that he knows where to get,” nothing daunted by the mandate, he repaired to Mat Maltby, the elder, a cunning old poacher, who knew every cover in the county, upon whose recommendation it was arranged that a bag-fox, then in the possession of a neighbour, should be shook in South Grove, a long-slip of old oak, with an excellent bottom for holding a fox. All things being thus arranged, as Mr. Jorrocks conceived, with the greatest secrecy, he went to bed early, and long before it was light he lay tumbling and tossing about, listening to the ticking of the clock below, and the snoring of Benjamin above.

At last day began to dawn, and having sought Ben’s room and soused the boy with a pitcher of cold water, Mr. Jorrocks proceeded to jump into his hunting clothes, consisting of a roomy scarlet coat, with opossum pockets and spoon cuffs, drab shags, and mahogany-coloured tops. Arrived at the kennel, he found Fleeceall there on his old gig mare, with his hands stuck in the pockets of a dirty old mackintosh, which completely enveloped his person. “Is Miserrimus ’ere?” inquired Mr. Jorrocks, all fuss and flurry on discovering the person of his secretary. “Well, carn’t wait—sorry for it—know better another time;” and thereupon he ordered out the horses, gave Ben a leg up on to Xerxes, mounted Arterxerxes himself, the hounds were unkenneled with a melodious rush, and desiring Fleeceall to lead the way, Mr. Jorrocks got the glad pack about him, and went away for South Grove, with a broad grin of satisfaction on his jolly face.

The day seemed auspicious, and there was a balmy freshness in the air that promised well for scent. Added to this, Mr. Jorrocks had cut the left side of his chin in shaving, which he always considered ominous of sport.—Bump, bump, jolt, jolt, jog, jog, he went on his lumbering hunter, now craneing over its neck to try if he could see its knees, now cheering and throwing bits of biscuit to the hounds, now looking back to see if Benjamin was in his right place, and again holloaing out some witticism to Fleeceall in advance. Thus they reached the rushy, unenclosed common, partially studded with patches of straggling gorse, which bounds the east side of South Grove, and our sporting master having wet his forefinger on his tongue, and held it up to ascertain which quarter the little air there was came from, so as to give the pack the benefit of the wind, prepared for throwing off without delay. Having scrutinized the wood fence most attentively, he brought his horse to bear upon the rotten stakes and witherings of a low, ill made-up gap. In the distance Jorrocks thought of jumping it, but he changed his mind as he got nearer. “Pull out this stake, Binjimin,” exclaimed he to the boy, suddenly reining up short; “Jamp a top on’t! jamp a top on’t!” added he, “so as to level the ’edge with the ground,” observing, “these little places often give one werry nasty falls.” This feat being accomplished, Benjamin climbed on to Xerxes again, and Jorrocks, desiring him to keep on the right of the cover, parallel with him, and not to be sparing of his woice, rode into the wood after his hounds, who had broken away with a whimper, ripening into a challenge, the moment he turned his horse’s head towards the cover.

What a cry there was! The boy with the fox in a bag had crossed the main ride about a minute before the hounds entered, and they took up the scent in an instant.—Mr. Jorrocks thought it was the morning drag, and screamed and holloaed most cheerily—“Talli-ho!” was heard almost instantaneously at the far end of the wood, and taking out his horn, Mr. Jorrocks scrambled through the underwood, breaking the briars and snapping the hazels as he went. Sure enough the fox had gone that way, but the hounds were running flash in a contrary direction. “Talli-ho! talli-ho! hoop! hoop! hoop! away! away! away!” holloaed Mat Maltby, who, after shaking the fox most scientifically, had pocketed the sack.

Twang, twang, twang, went Mr. Jorrocks’s horn, sometimes in full, sometimes in divided notes and half screeches. The hounds turn and make for the point. Governor, Adamant, Dexterous, and Judgment came first, then the body of the pack, followed by Benjamin at full gallop on Xerxes, with his face and hands all scratched and bleeding from the briars and brushwood, that Xerxes, bit in teeth, had borne him triumphantly through. Bang—the horse shot past Mr. Jorrocks, Benjamin screaming, yelling, and holding on by the mane, Xerxes doing with him just what he liked, and the hounds getting together and settling to the scent. “My vig, wot a splitter!” cried Mr. Jorrocks in astonishment, as Xerxes took a high stone wall out of the cover in his stride, without disturbing the coping, but bringing Ben right on to his shoulder—“Hoff, for a fi’ pun note! hoff for a guinea ’at to a Gossamer!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, eyeing his whipper-in’s efforts to regain the saddle.—A friendly chuck of Xerxes’s head assists his endeavours, and Ben scrambles back to his place. A gate on the left let Mr. Jorrocks out of cover, on to a good sound sward, which he prepared to take advantage of by getting Arterxerxes short by the head, rising in his stirrups, and hustling him along as hard as ever he could lay legs to the ground. An open gate at the top fed the flame of his eagerness, and, not being afraid of the pace so long as there was no leaping, Jorrocks sent him spluttering through a swede turnip field as if it was pasture. Now sitting plum in his saddle, he gathered his great whip together, and proceeded to rib-roast Arterxerxes in the most summary manner, calling him a great, lurching, rolling, lumbering beggar, vowing that if he didn’t lay himself out and go as he ought, he’d “boil him when he got ’ome.” So he jerked and jagged, and kicked and spurred, and hit and held, making indifferent progress compared to his exertions. The exciting cry of hounds sounded in front and now passing on to a very heavy, roughly ploughed upland, our master saw the hind-quarters of some half-dozen horses, the riders of which had been in the secret, disappearing through the high quick fence at the top.

“Dash my vig, ’ere’s an unawoidable leap, I do believe,” said he to himself, as he neared the headland, and saw no way out of the field but over the fence—a boundary one; “and a werry hawkward place it is too,” added he, eyeing it intently, “a yawnin’ blind ditch, a hugly quick fence on the top, and may be, a plough or ’arrow turned teeth huppermost, on the far side.

“Oh, John Jorrocks, John Jorrocks, my good frind, I wishes you were well over with all my ’eart—terrible place, indeed! Give a guinea ’at to be on the far side,” so saying, he dismounted, and pulling the snaffle-rein of the bridle over his horse’s head, he knotted the lash of his ponderous whip to it, and very quietly slid down the ditch and climbed up the fence, “who-a-ing” and crying to his horse to “stand still,” expecting every minute to have him atop of him. The taking-on place was wide, and two horses having gone over before, had done a little towards clearing the way, so having gained his equilibrium on the top, Mr. Jorrocks began jerking and coaxing Arterxerxes to induce him to follow, pulling at him much in the style of a school-boy who catches a log of wood in fishing.

“Come hup! my man,” cried Mr. Jorrocks, coaxingly, jerking the rein; but Arterxerxes only stuck his great resolute fore legs in advance, and pulled the other way. “Gently, old fellow!” cried he, “gently, Arterxerxes, my bouy!” dropping his hand, so as to give him a little more line, and then trying what effect a jerk would have, in inducing him to do what he wanted. Still the horse stood with his great legs before him. He appeared to have no notion of leaping. Jorrocks began to wax angry. “Dash my vig, you hugly brute!” he exclaimed, grinning with rage at the thoughts of the run he was losing, “dash my vig, if you don’t mind what you’re arter, I’ll get on your back and bury my spurs i’ your sides. Come Hup! I say, you hugly beast!” roared he, giving a tremendous jerk of the rein, upon which the horse flew back, pulling Jorrocks downwards in the muddy ditch. Arterxerxes then threw up his heels and ran away, whip and all.

Meanwhile, our bagman played his part gallantly, running three-quarters of a ring, of three-quarters of a mile, chiefly in view, when, feeling exhausted, he threw himself into a furze-patch, near a farmyard, where Dauntless very soon had him by the back, but the smell of the aniseed, with which he had been plentifully rubbed, disgusting the hound, he chucked him in the air and let him fall back in the bush. Xerxes, who had borne Ben gallantly before the body of the pack, came tearing along, like a poodle with a monkey on his back, when, losing the cry of hounds, the horse suddenly stopped short, and off flew Benjamin beside the fox, who, all wild with fear and rage, seized Ben by the nose, who ran about with the fox hanging to him, yelling, “Murder! murder! murder!” for hard life.

And to crown the day’s disasters, when at length our fat friend got his horse and his hounds, and his damaged Benjamin scraped together again, and re-entered Handley Cross, he was yelled at, and hooted, and rid coat! rid coat!—ed by the children, and made an object of unmerited ridicule by the fair but rather unfeeling portion of the populace.

“Lauk! here’s an old chap been to Spilsby!” shouted Betty Lucas, the mangle-woman, on getting a view of his great mud-stained back.

“Hoot! he’s always tumblin’ off, that ’ard chap,” responded Mrs. Hardbake, the itinerant lolly-pop seller, who was now waddling along with her tray before her.

“Sich old fellers have no business out a huntin’!” observed Miss Rampling, the dressmaker, as she stood staring, bonnet-box on arm.

Then a marble-playing group of boys suspended operations to give Jorrocks three cheers; one, more forward than the rest, exclaiming, as he eyed Arterxerxes, “A! what a shabby tail! A! what a shabby tail!”

Next as he passed the Barley-mow beer-shop, Mrs. Gallon, the landlady, who was nursing a child at the door, exclaimed across the street, to Blash, the barber’s pretty but rather wordy wife—

“A—a—a! ar say Fanny!—old Fatty’s had a fall!”

To which Mrs. Blash replied with a scornful toss of her head, at our now admiring friend—

“Hut! he’s always on his back, that old feller.”

“Not ’alf so often as you are, old gal!” retorted the now indignant Mr. Jorrocks, spurring on out of hearing.