CHAPTER XX

JAMES PIGG

SCARCELY had Mr. Jorrocks composed himself in his red morocco audience chair, ere a sledge-hammer sort of blow at the door announced the approach of the stranger.

“Come in!” roared the M.F.H. in a corresponding tone, and the order being obeyed, our friend had a view of his caller.

He was a tall, spindle-shanked man, inclining to bald, with flowing grey-streaken locks shading a sharp-featured. weather-beaten face, lit up with bright hazel eyes. A drop hung at his nose, and tobacco juice sim mered down the deeply indented furrows of his chin His dress was a strange mixture of smart-coloured, misfitting clothes. A blue and white cotton kerchief was twisted carelessly round his scraggy neck—a green-baize jacket, with the back buttons almost between his shoulders, flattened upon a pair of baggy dirty-white cords, between which, and a little red waistcoat, a vast protuberance of soiled linen appeared. His shrunk drab mother-of-pearl buttoned gaiters dragged upon an ill-shaped leg, making his stooping, lathy figure more ungainly, and the scantiness of his upper garments more apparent. His hands, encased in shiny yellow ochre-coloured gloves, were thrust a long way through the little jacket sleeves, between which and the gloves, coarse dirty wrist-bands appeared—one hand clutched a boy’s turned-up hat, and the other rested on a rugged oak staff.

“Humph!” grunted Mr. Jorrocks, as he eyed him, observing aloud to himself, “Vot a long-legged beggar it is,” inwardly resolving he wouldn’t do.

“Your sarvant, Sir,” said the figure, shuffling the little hat into the staff hand, while he raised the other to his forehead, and kicked out behind. “Heard tell ye was in wants of a hontsman.”

“Humph,” grunted Mr. Jorrocks again, “you don’t look much like one. Vere d’ye come from?”

“Cannynewcassel,” replied Pigg. “A, ar’s frae Harwich last,” added he, “but ar’s a native of Paradise, aside Cannynewcassel—ye’ll ken Cannynewcassel, nae doubt,” observed he, running the words together.

“Carn’t say as ’ow I do,” replied Mr. Jorrocks thoughtfully, still eyeing the bird of Paradise. “Is it any way near Dundee?”

“Dundee! no—what should put that i’ your head?” snapped Pigg.

“Wot should put that i’ my ’ead!” retorted Mr. Jorrocks, boiling up. “Vy, it must be near somewhere!”

“Near somewhere!” now exclaimed Pigg, indignant at the slight thus put on his famous city. “Why it’s a great town of itsel’—ye surely ken Newcassel where arle the coals come frae?”

“You said Candied Newcassel,” enunciated Mr. Jorrocks, slowly and emphatically—“you said Candied Newcassel,” repeated he, “from which I natterally concluded it was near Dundee, where they make the candied confectionary. I get my marmeylad from there I’m not such a hignorant hass,” continued he, “as not to know where Newcastle is. I’ve been i’ Scotland myself! Durham at least.”

They then took a good long stare at each other, each thinking the other a “rum un.”

Jorrocks gave tongue first. “Wot ’ounds have you been with?” asked he.

“A—a vast,” replied Pigg, “yen way and another.”

“Yen way and another,” muttered Mr. Jorrocks, still eyeing him intently.

“Aye, ar ken all the hounds amaist. Tyndale, and D’orm, and Horworth, and arl.”

“Ah, but those ’ill be Scotch dogs,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, “a country I knows nothin’ whatever on—have you been in any civilized country?”

“Aye, civil, aye, they’re all civil enough—’gin ye’re civil to them. If ye set up your gob, they’ll mump it, ar’s warn’d.”

“No—no—that’s not wot I mean, retorted Mr. Jorrocks, getting angry and shuffling about in his seat. “I wants to know if you’ve ever been in any of the crack countries?”

“Cracked countries,” repeated Pigg thoughtfully, scratching his head—“cracked countries, aye—yeas—Warlesend.”

“No! no!” growled Mr. Jorrocks, kicking out his legs, “any of the cut ’em down and ’ang ’em up to dry countries?” asked our master, thinking to exterminate Pigg and be done.

“Why—no—ar hannut,” drawled Pigg, twiddling his hat about.

“Ah then, you’ll not do for me,” replied our friend, with a supercilious chuck of the chin.—

“Why, why, sir,” replied Pigg, “ye ken best.”

“Ye ken best,” repeated Mr. Jorrocks, aloud to himself, adding, “what a rum beggar it is, to be sure.”

They then kept eyeing each other again for a while.

“Con-founded nuisance,” muttered Mr. Jorrocks to himself, “not being able to get an ’untsman,” recollecting the boiled lobster, Plaster of Paris Poll Parrot merchant, and other scenes. “Con-founded nuisance indeed.” Then he thought he’d sound Pigg again.

“Do you think now,” continued he, speaking very slowly, and looking very intently at the applicant,—“do you think now you’re ekle to my place? first-rate establishment, splendid pack of ’ounds, inwaluable ’osses, swell country, critical field.”

“Why, now, it’s not for me to say,” replied Pigg, turning his quid, “but ar’s fond o’ hunds, and ar’d de my best te please ye.”

“Well,” thought Mr. Jorrocks, “that’s summut at all events, let me be master, which is agreeable. Wouldn’t ha’ been so with Mr. Bragg, I guess. You can ride, I s’pose?” observed he, addressing the applicant in a more conciliatory tone.

Pigg.—“Ride! ay, ar wish ar’d nout else te de.”

Mr. Jorrocks.—“And clean an ’oss?”

Pigg.—“Aye, ne doubt,—grum him, that’s to say.”

“You’ll be werry keen, I s’pose?” said Mr. Jorrocks, brightening as he went.

“Ar’s varra hungry, if that’s what ye mean,” replied Pigg, after a moment’s consideration.

“No,” said Mr. Jorrocks, “I means, you’ll be desperation fond of ’unting.”

“Fond o’ huntin’! Oh faith is I—there’s nout like huntin’.”

“Dash my vig! so say I! exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, still brightening up, “so say I! it’s the real Daffy’s Elixir! The Cordial Balm o’ Gilead! The concentrated Essence o’ Joy!—Vot weight are you? you’re long in the leg,” continued Mr. Jorrocks, surveying him from head to foot.

“Ar’s lang, but ar’s leet,” replied Pigg, looking down at his spindle shanks, “ar’s sure ar dinna ken what ar weighs—may be elivin stun.”

“In course you’re a bachelor?” observed Mr. Jorrocks.

“Oh quite,” replied Pigg, “ar never fashes the women folk.”

Mr. Jorrocks.—“Vot’s your pedigree? ’ow are you bred, in fact?”

Pigg.—“A—why—sink”—hesitated the speaker, twisting the hat about hurriedly, “ar dinna ken nout about that. Ar de believe though, gin ar had me dues, ar’d be a gen’lman this day—only ye see, sir, you see,” continued he, “ma fore elder John, ye see John Pigg, willed away arle wor brass to the Formory, ye see, and left me wi’ fairly nout. Gin ye gan to the Newcassel Formory, ye’ll see arle aboot it, in great goud letters, clagged agin the walls. Sink! but he’d better ha gien me it.”

“Humph,” grunted Mr. Jorrocks, not catching a quarter of this hurried run-together sentence. “Humph,” repeated he, looking him over attentively, thinking how to get him to speak English. “Wot d’ye say your father was?” at length asked he.

Pigg.—“Ah, ar dinna ken nout about that; ar’s heard tell ar was dropped somewhere i’ Canny Newcassel, but ar’ niver kenned ne body i’ the shape o’ father or friend but mar coosin Deavilboger—you’ll hav’ heard tell of mar coosin Deavilboger, ne doot.”

“Can’t say as ’ow I have,” replied Mr. Jorrocks; “is he a great man for the ’unt?”

“No, de’il a bit,” laughed Pigg, “it was just that we fell out about. Says Deavilboger to me yen mornin’, as I was gannin to Gosforth Gates to see the hunds throw off, says he to me says he, ‘If thou doesn’t yoke the cart and gan and lead tormots, thou needn’t fash thyself to come back here ony more; ar’ll have ne gentlemen sportsmen ’bout mar farm.’

“Says ar to Deavilboger, ‘Deavilboger,’ says ar, ‘thou surely wadn’t grudge a man the matter of a hunt, ar that’s always i’ the way and ready to oblige;’ but he’s a deuce of a man when he’s angered is mar coosin Deavilboger, and he swore and cussed that if ar went ar shouldn’t come back—A, a, a, how he did swear and cuss—ar really think he didn’t leave a part o’ me uncussed ’cept my teeth and nails, so ye see we quarrelled and parted ye see.”

“But he’s a good man i’ the main, is mar cousin Deavilboger,” continued Pigg, “only he canna bear the hunds, and as sure as iver winter cam round the Deavil an’ I were sure to have a dust; but that’s all done now and ended, so ar’ll always speak well o’ the ard Deavil, for he was a good frind to me, and gav’ me monny an ard suit o’ claes, and monny a half-crown at the Cow Hill and such like times—dare say he gave me this very hat ar hev i’ my hand,” continued Pigg, thrusting out the little chapeau as he spoke.

“Can you ’unt a pack of ’ounds?” inquired Mr. Jorrocks, wishing to get Pigg on to the old tack.

“Why now it’s not for me to say,” replied Pigg, “but ar’s used to hunds, and ar’s fond o’ hunds, and have travelled all o’er the world amaist—Bliss ye, all the sportin’ gentlemen ken me, King o’ Hungary and all!”

“Well, you shall eat as you’re ’ungry,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, not catching the last sentence, “but I wants to know more about you and your pretensions—an ’untsman holds a conspikious place in the world’s eye, and it be’oves an M.F.H. to be werry ’tickler wot’un a one he selects. Tell me now, can you holloa?”

“Hoop, and holloa, and talli-ho!” exclaimed Pigg, at the top of his voice, his eyes sparkling with animation.

“Gently,” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, partaking of his enthusiasm, “you’ll frighten the ladies; tell me now, wot wage do you want?”

“What wage? A ar dinne ken!—we’ll not differ’bout the matter o’wage—What is ar to de?”

“Vy, you’ll have to ’unt and feed the ’ounds, clean two ’osses, look arter the tackle; see that all’s on the square, in fact.”

“Ar can de all that,” replied Pigg, “and break yeer ’ard bones into the bargain.”

“Humph! Werry kind,” grunted Mr. Jorrocks.

“Ar mean ’ard kennel bones,” explained Pigg, seeing Mr. Jorrocks looked irate.

“Oh, I twig,” replied our master, resuming his smile, “break ’em for the farmers—for turnip manure, in fact—We’ll go on ’bout the wage.”

“Ar’d like to have my vittels i’ the house, if you have me objection,” resumed Pigg.

“In the ’ouse,” said Mr. Jorrocks, considering, “I doesn’t know about that—to be sure you are light i’ the girth, and don’t look like a great grubber, but ’unting makes one werry ’ungry.”

“Bless ye, ar eat nout,” replied Pigg, rubbing his hand over his stomach, to show how flat it was, “and ar’d take a vast less wage gin ar were fund in the house.”

Mr. Jorrocks.—“S’pose, then, we say eighteen pounds, your meat, and a suit of clothes.”

Pigg.—“Say twenty, and ar’ll find mysel’,—ar’ve a capital cap ar got in a raffle, and a red coat ’ard Sebright gave me.”

“No, no,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, “none of your castoffs. The ’Andley Cross ’ounds must be turned out properly.”

“Well, then,” replied Pigg, “you mun hev it your own way; see gi’ us my arles.”

“Your wot?” inquired Mr. Jorrocks.

Pigg.—“My arles! we always get arles i’ wor country.”

Mr. Jorrocks.—“Wot all your wittles at once?”

Pigg.—“No, man—sir, ar mean—summut to bind bargain like.”

Mr. Jorrocks.—“I twig! See, there’s a shillin’ for you. Now go and get your dinner—be werry keen, mind.”

Pigg ducked his head as he took the money, and slouched joyfully out of the room.

Jorrocks then threw himself back in his red morocco hunting-chair, hoping he might answer, and wishing that he hadn’t been rather precipitate in the bargain. If Pigg didn’t suit, his boots wouldn’t fit anybody else. Still he looked more promising than any of the others, and Jorrocks hoped he was keen.

“It might ha’ been better p’raps,” said he, as he took up a leg to nurse, and entered upon a study of the ceiling —“it might ha’been better if I’d made some inquiries about him—but confound it, wot tradesman can tell anything about an ’untsman, and who else could I ask! Anything’s better nor Bin bellowin’ ‘boiled lobsters’ arter one, or the ’ounds runnin’ into Plaster o’ Paris Poll Parrot merchant’s. Con-found it,” continued Jorrocks, shaking his head, “Mr. Payne and Goodhall, and these swells i’ the cut-me-downs, do the thing so easy, that it makes us fools o’ natur’ think we can do the same, but dash my buttons, findin’ a fox and killin’ on ’im are werry different things.” Then Jorrocks’s runaway imagination carried him right into the cut-me-down countries; to Misterton, to Arthingworth, to Bardon Hall with Sir Richard, to Croxton Park with the Belvoir.