CHAPTER XXVII

ANOTHER BENIGHTED SPORTSMAN

“Heard the winds roar, and the big torrent burst.”—Thomson

“WELL, I can’t stand it any longer, so it’s no trying,” said Charley Stobbs to himself, turning his horse’s head in the direction of a light he saw gleaming past a window on the left of the road.

Having about got through his horse, and lost Pigg and the hounds, he had taken temporary refuge at a small public house, which he had imprudently left, in hopes of regaining Handley Cross that night.

After much casting about in the dark, with the imperfect and contradictory directions usually obtained from peasants in remote parts, Charley’s perseverance at length failed him, and he resolved to give in.

The night was drear and dark—the wind howled and whistled with uncommon keenness—and the cutting hail drifted with the sharpness of needles against his face. Horse and rider were equally dispirited.

Having formed his resolution, Charley was speedily at a white gate, whose sound and easy swing denoted an entrance of some pretension.

A few seconds more, and he was under the lee of a large house. Having dismounted, and broken his shins against a scraper, he at length discovered a bell-pull in the door-post, which, having sounded, the echoing notes from afar proclaimed the size and importance of the mansion.

All was still, save the wild wind, which swept over the lawn, dashing a few straggling leaves about with uncommon fury. Charley stood dripping and shivering, with his horse in his hand, but no one came—all was still within. Another pull sounded through the house, and a third succeeded that. At length, in a partial lull, a soft female voice was heard through the door, inquiring, “Who was there?”

“Me!” exclaimed Charley; “Mr. Stobbs!—a benighted fox-hunter—been out with Mr. Jorrocks’s hounds.”

“Master’s gone to bed,” replied the servant, drawing the bolts and chain as she spoke; and just as she began to open the door, a sudden gust of wind extinguished her candle.

“I’ll run for a lantern,” exclaimed she, shutting-to the door, leaving Charley stamping and thumping himself with his hands. Presently she returned with a dark lantern, with the slide up, which threw a light over the horseman without discovering the holder.

The sight of a red coat banishing fear, she closed the door after her and informed Charley that master was gone to bed, and the butler too, but she would show him the stable and get a man to take charge of the horse. The Yorkshire nag seemed to understand the arrangement, for he immediately gave himself a hearty shake, as if to say that his labours were done at last.

The maid led the way, and on they went to the stable It formed the wing of the house, and a groom, sleeping above, being roused from his bed, came with the alacrity usually displayed by servants in the service of a red-coat.

Indeed, as Mr. Jorrocks says, there’s no colour like scarlet. In it, a man winks at the women, rings at your bell, orders your brandy, rides through your garden, and all in the style of doing you a favour. The half-dressed groom would whole-dress the horse, and get him some gruel, and clothe him well up, and litter him well down; and as he hissed, and pulled at the horse’s ears, he paused every now and then and grinned with delight at Charley’s account of the sport.

“A’, it must have been a grand run!” exclaimed he; “and where did you kill him?”

“Don’t know that,” replied Charles; “we got upon the Downs, when it became actually racing—the fox going in the teeth of the wind, and no one with the hounds but the huntsman, and a farmer who cut in during the run. I got into a bog, and the hounds ran clean out of sight before I recovered my horse, and night came on without my even being able to hear or see anything more of them.”

“Dear!” exclaimed the groom, “you don’t say so—that was a bad job; and was Squire Jorrocks not up?” thereupon the groom dived elbow-deep into the gruel-pail, and, lifting it up, the horse quaffed off the contents like a basin of soup. Blankets and bandages came warm from the saddle-room fire, and having seen his horse well done by, and told the groom all he could about the run, Charley again sought the shelter of the house.

The little maiden had returned there after providing the gruel, and was ready to open the door as she heard Charley’s approach. “She would show him into the parlour,” she said, “where there was a good fire;” and forthwith led the way up a long passage, with a couple of steps in the centre. The parlour was evidently the master’s room—the sanctum sanctorum—a small snuggery, with book-shelves on two sides—guns, swords, game-bags, powder-tryers, fishing-rods, &c., on the third—and a red-curtained window on the fourth; a round table, with the fragments of dessert, an empty and a half-empty decanter, stood before the fire, while a well-used red morocco easy-chair stood on one side of the table.

“A bachelor,” said Charley to himself, glancing at the table and chair, and then at the pretty maid whose corkscrew curls dangled down her healthy cheeks, despite the unruly elements to which they had just been exposed; “clear case that, I think,” said he, eyeing the fit of her nicely done-up blue cotton gown, and well-turned ankles, with broadish-sandalled shoes; “no missis would keep such a pretty blue-eyed maid as that,” said he to himself.

“Would you like to take anything, sir?” inquired she, lighting the wax-candles, and casting a look of commiseration at Charley’s wet breeches.

“Nothing, thank you, my pretty dear, except—a kiss,” giving her ruby lips a smack that sounded along the passage.

“Hush!” exclaimed she, colouring up in alarm, “Mrs. Thompson will hear.”

“And who’s Mrs. Thompson?”

“The housekeeper, to be sure; she’s just gone to bed.’

“Well, if that’s the case,” replied Charles, “I think I should like a little sherry-and-water, or something” lifting up the half-emptied decanter, “if you could get some hot water and sugar; or never mind the sugar, if Mrs. Thompson’s got the keys.”

“Oh, I’ll get you both,” replied blue-eyes, tripping away.

Charles now began to reconnoitre the apartment. Taking a light, he proceeded to examine the book-case. There was a curious mixture:—Burns’s Justice and the Gentleman’s Magazine; Statutes at Large and Anderson’s Agriculture; the Tatler and Pope’s Homer; Don Quixote and the Old Sporting Magazine; Seneca’s Morals and Camden’s Britannia; Osbaldestone’s British Sportsman; Calamy’s Sermons and Adam’s Essays; Walker’s Pronouncing Dictionary and Sidney’s Arcadia; Dacier’s Plutarch and White’s Farriery.

“Sporting parson, perhaps,” thought Charles to himself. “No, that can’t be,” continued he; “no bachelor parsons—at least, not with such houses as this. Some young man just come to his fortune, most likely, and hasn’t had time to pick up a wife yet. No, that won’t do; a young ’un wouldn’t be in bed so soon as this.” Blue-eyes interrupted the speculation by appearing with a tray containing a nice plate of ham-sandwiches, hot water, sugar, lemon, nutmeg, &c.

‘You’re a darling!” exclaimed Charley, squeezing her hand as she placed them on the table: “By Jove, there’s no work done with that,” said he to himself, as she ran out of the room; “soft as a mowdy-warp!”

Charley took the red morocco chair, and mixing himself some negus, recommenced his speculation on the probable station of his host. The books and the blue-eyes, and the guns and the soft hand confused him: and the more he thought, the nearer he was falling asleep—and the farther from arriving at a conclusion.

“Master’s gone to bed,” muttered Charley, recollecting the little maid’s first observation. “No mistress, that’s clear;” and thereupon he drained off his tumbler, and filled up another. “Curious assortment of things he has in his room,” thought Charley, looking about him. “I don’t see a hunting-whip,” and having satisfied himself on that point, without moving from his chair, he commenced a vigorous attack on the ham-sandwiches.

“Shall I show you to bed?” inquired the little maid, peeping in at the door just as Charley was dropping asleep.

“If you please, my dear!” replied he, starting up, rubbing his eyes, and draining off the tumbler of sherry-and-water that had been cooling at his elbow.

The maiden lighted a bed-candle, and proceeded to lead the way up a wide, black oak stair-case, whose massive, shining banisters were ornamented with carved birds, monkeys, guinea-pigs, and other specimens of zoology, at the turns of the frequent landings. The wind had lulled, and the heavy ticking of a large black-faced time-piece with gilt figures was all that disturbed the monotony of night.

Lightly following his fairy guide, an involuntary hope came over Charley that he might not make the acquaintance of his host through the medium of a horse-pistol cocking at him through one of the black doors as they passed. Turning from the wide passage, up a narrower one on the left, a gleam of light, through a partially closed door, showed the termination of his travels, and throwing it open, a large poker in a downward slant, evinced the activity of the little maid, who had lighted the fire, got the room ready, and all the little arrangements made, while Charles was busy with his negus and speculations.

We need scarcely say that the room was not that bugbear to humble minds—the best one in the house, up whose lofty beds short-legged men swarm, as though they were climbing a tree, but it was one of those betwixt-and-between sort of apartments, that, like the pony in a stable, comes in for most of the work. The bed was exceedingly low, scarcely two feet from the ground, and stood in the centre of the room, with the head against the wall and the feet towards the fire. The curtains were of thick but faded orange damask, and the counterpane was patchwork of many colours. Round the bed was a slip of black and red carpeting; another piece lay before a dressing-table, on which was a curious old black and gilt Chinese-patterned looking-glass, with many drawers, and the thoughtful little maiden had placed another piece of carpeting under the foot-bath before the fire. The rest of the floor was bare, and there was a large black oak press in the corner, with richly carved festoons above the drawers, and coats of arms emblazoned on the panels.

“Shall I take your coat down to dry?” inquired the little maiden, slipping the poker out of the fire.

“If you please,” replied Charles; “but first you must help me out of it.” Whereupon she put down the poker, and taking hold of the cuff, Charles drew himself out of the adhering garment. “Now,” said he, giving her the wet scarlet and a kiss at the same time, which produced a corresponding effusion in her cheeks; “how shall I know about getting up in the morning?”

“Oh, Aaron will call you!” replied the little maid, seizing the poker and tripping away.

“Aaron will call me!” repeated Charley, returning from chasing her to a green-baized door at the end of the passage. “Aaron will call me!—what a queer name for a servant!—Wonder what the master is? Aaron!—’Gad he must be a priest, and Aaron is his clerk and valet-de-chambre. No, that can’t be either, for here’s a boot-jack, a thing one never meets with in a parson’s house; and, as I live! no end of sporting pictures,” added he, holding his candle to the wall.

Sure enough, there were Loraine Smith’s famous piotures of the Quorn Hunt, the progenitor of the now innumerable race of sporting prints: “Bagging the Fox”; “The Rendezvous of the Smoking Hunt at Braunstone,” in which gentlemen appear with great meerschaums in their mouths; “The Loss of the Chaplain,” exhibiting a reverend gentleman somewhat in Mr. Jorrocks’s predicament—in danger of drowning, if he were not in equal danger of hanging; “The Meeting at Grooby Pool”; “The Victory of Obtaining the Brush,” &c., all stretched on canvas, with broad gilt borders, and ranged round the room. Above the fireplace was the portrait of an old gentleman in a cocked hat, a gold-laced blue coat, with a snuff-box in one hand, and the other resting on the head of a greyhound, whose master seemed to look upon Charley, as he sat up to his knees in not water, in anything but a patronizing way.

“Should this be my host, or even my host’s father or grandfather,” thought Charley to himself, “perhaps he may not be over glad to see me; however,” added he, “ ‘enough for the day is the evil thereof’ ”; so, exchanging his damp shirt for a nice well-aired cotton one, with the initials “J. W. F.” on one side, and rejecting both a double and single nightcap, laid out for his choice, he put out his candle, and turned into bed.

Sound and healthy were his slumbers;—day dawned without his waking, and neither the darting rays of a dazzling sun, brightening the moreen curtains through the chinks of the shutters, nor the noisy tick of the passage clock, had any influence on his sleep.

At length he started up, as a sledge-hammer sort of thump sounded on the door.

“Come in!” exclaimed he, involuntarily, the exertion of which awoke him to a recollection of the past and a sense of his situation. “How deuced awkward!” thought he to himself, looking at a great bell-tassel hanging above his head, and considering whether he should pull it or not.

“Thump!” went the door again, and no mistake.

“Come in!” exclaimed Charley; but still no one entered. “Must get up at all events,” reasoned Charley; “must be eight, at least;” looking at the rays of sunshine shooting into the room. Just as his hand grasped the bell-pull,—

“Thump!” went somebody at the door again.

“Come in!” roared Charles for the third time, but still the door remained closed. Just as he was debating whether to ring the bell or compose himself for another nap, the door opened, and a slow, heavy foot paced steadily across the room to the window. Drawing aside the window-curtain, the heavy cross-bar swung length-ways in the shutter, which being folded exhibited the person of the intruder.

He was an elderly, clumsily built, middle-sized man, with a brown scratch-wig, surmounting a square, thick-featured, unmeaning countenance. A school-boy’s turnip lantern would perhaps convey the best idea of the style of his much tanned face and features. He was dressed in a snuff-coloured coat, loose buff waistcoat, puddingy white neckcloth, drab kerseymere breeches; and his swelling calves and enormously thick ankles were cased in white lamb’s-wool stockings; thick shoes, with leather strings, completed his costume. Having opened the shutters, he stumped to the foot of the bed, and placing himself right in the middle, thus delivered himself in good set Zummerzetzhire—

“Pleaze, zur, meazter gittin oop.”

“Thank you, Aaron!” exclaimed Charles, never doubting his man. “Pray can you tell me what o’clock it is?”

“I’ll zee, zur,” replied Aaron, after a pause, stumping out of the room to consult the passage clock.

“What a man it is!” exclaimed Charley, burying his face in the pillow, as he roared with laughter at his unmeaning, cast-iron countenance. “What can his meazter be!” Presently, creak, creak, creak, announced old heavy-heels returning. Placing himself in his old position, exactly at the centre of the bed, he thus-delivered himself—

“Pleaz, zur, it’s nineteen minutes pazt eight. Will you pleaz, zur, to want anything more, zur?” at length inquired the stupid old man.

“More!” thought Charles, “why, I’ve got nothing as yet;” wishing he had his female valet-de-chambre of the previous night back instead of old Aaron. “Yes, I should like some warm water for one thing, and my boots cleaned for another,” looking at his mud-stained tops standing against a chair near the foot-bath. Razors, brushes, combs, sponges, and a host of etceteras, flitted across his mind, but considering the slowness of Aaron, and the state of his raiment, Charles thought he had better do with as little as possible. Out, then, Aaron stumped, and Charles was left alone to his reflections.

“Confounded awkward!” said he to himself, ruminating on his situation. “Suppose there’s a mistress or young misses, what a figure I shall cut at a breakfast table! Leathers like parchment, boots all dirt, neck-cloth spoiled; better start off, and take my chance on the road, or breakfast when I get home.” Then the recollection of the previous night deranged his reasoning. The little snuggery, the solitary easy chair, the remnants of dessert instead of tea, and the little blue-eyed maid, all savoured of bachelorism; so, dismissing the lady consideration from his mind, he again applied himself to the question of what his host could be. Aaron and the blue-eyed maid were inconsistent. Such a pretty little girl, and such a very ugly old man—one so sharp, the other so slow—“and yet what a stupe I am,” continued Charles; “Aaron’s just the sort of man to keep in the house with a pretty girl;” and thereupon his host assumed the character of a fox-hunter, and Charles felt as if he knew him already.

“No, that won’t do,” continued Charles, demolishing the vision he had just conjured up; “she wouldn’t have blushed so if she’d been used to kissing;” and thereupon his spirits fell below zero. Stump, stump, stump, creak, creak, creak, came old heavy-heels along the passage, disturbing Charles’s reverie as well by his footsteps as his sledge-hammer thumps at the door. Thrice did he thump ere he would enter, and at length, when he did, having deposited a can of hot water on the wash-hand stand, he laid Charley’s scarlet coat exactly in the centre of the table, and resuming his old position at the foot of the bed, cast his unmeaning eyes towards the pillows, and drawled out—

“Pleaz, zur, do you pleaz to want anything elze?”

“Nothing but my boots cleaned!” exclaimed Charles, exhausted by his slowness, “though, perhaps,” added he, as Aaron was stumping away, “you may as well make my compliments to your meazter, and say that a gentleman, who lost his way out with the hounds yesterday, wishes to pay his respects to him at breakfast—or rather (aside), to his breakfast.”

“Yeaz, zur,” replied Aaron, trudging out. Up Charles jumped, and making for the window, surveyed the prospect outside.

Immediately below the terrace was an ill-kept garden, divided by massive clipt yew-hedges, opening by antique white gates upon an undulating park, girded by a river. A few cows stood listlessly to the sun, and two or three mares and yearlings scratched themselves with the lower branches of the trees with which the park was plentifully studded. The tufty grass showed the land was not overstocked. Beyond the river a rich grazing vale stretched to distant hills, whose undulating outline closed the grey horizon.

Having made his survey, Charles proceeded to dress. “Wish I had little blue-eyes to get me what I want,” thought he, pulling on a stained stocking, and looking at his shirt where the wet had soaked through his coat. Just then old Aaron was heard plodding back with his boots, which having placed at the door, he gave a loud thump, and asked if Charles wanted anything more.

“Oh, no!” replied Charles, opening the door, and taking in the dingy tops; “but tell me, what did your master say to my message?”

“He said verra well,” replied Aaron, stroking his hand over his wig.

“He said verra well,” repeated Charles, shutting the door in disgust; “what an inhospitable answer—fear he’s no fox-hunter—would have been up with shaving-pot and razors before this; however, never mind, I’ll soon be back to old J. and Belinda.” So saying, he began handling his leathers; they were tolerably dry, except at the knees, but were desperately the worse for wear—large mud-stains disfigured their creamy colour, and there was a great black patch down one side, where he had rolled in the bog. However, he coaxed himself into them, and pulling on his boots, he made the best he could of his damaged blue neckcloth, while his cord waistcoat and red coat felt grateful for their acquaintance with the fire.

He was now ready for a start; and, the passage-clock striking nine, in an Aaron-like pace Charles made for the sound, and soon got into the gallery he had traversed overnight. Descending the zoological staircase, he found his friend Aaron standing with his ear at a door, listening, like a terrier at a rat-hole; Charley would fain have had a word with him, but Aaron gave him no time for inquiry, by opening a door, and discovering the top of a well-powdered head, with a pigtail cocking above the red morocco chair.

“The gentleman, zur,” said Aaron, advancing to the back of the chair.

Up jumped a little red-faced old gentleman, who, depositing a newspaper on the breakfast-table, made a profound Sir Charles Grandison salaam as he presented a full front to the enterer.

He was dressed in a single-breasted high-collared blue coat, with large silver buttons, white cravat, with a black one over it, buff waistcoat, with flap-pockets, cut out over the hips, yellow leather breeches, and rose-coloured top-boots, buckling round his knees with broad leather boot-garters.

Charley bowed his best in return, and thinking what a sorry figure his mud-stained clothes must cut by the spotless ones before him, began muttering something about fox-hunting, boldness, benighted, hospitality, hungry—the little old gentleman jerking and bowing all the time, and motioning him into a chair on the other side of the round table.

Glad to hide his dilapidations under the table, Charley sidled to the seat, and tucking his napkin under his waistcoat, cast his eye round the apartment, and then began to reconnoitre the well-furnished breakfast-table.

His host resumed his seat, and jerking out his short legs as though he were on horseback, fixed his little beady black eyes upon Charles, and opened a voluble battery with—“Charming sport fox-hunting!—was a great sportsman myself!—one of the fastest of the fast—long since now—days of old Sef. in fact—have often sat up in the saddle-room at Quorn playing cards till it was time to go to cover. Those were the days! No such young men now—degenerate race, quite—horses, too, all good for nothing—bad and weedy—no welters—shall never see such horses or hunting again as we used then—real science of the thing exploded—all riding and racing—no such men as old Meynell—or Corbet, or Lambton, or any of your lasters. Swell masters ruin a country—go a burst, and are done—foxes now run short and bad—worse than hares—if it wasn’t the grass the thing would be over. Pray make yourself at home. Take tea or coffee? None of your flagon-of-ale and round-of-beef breakfasts now-a-days—slip-slop, wishy-washy, milk-and-water, effeminate stuff—spoil nerves—no such riders as there used to be. Cold fowl on the sideboard—Aaron will bring some hot sausages directly. Turf seems all rotten—saw O’Kelly’s young Eclipse win the Derby in 1781—horses were horses then—Eclipse—Florizel—Highflyer—Juniper—men that might be called sportsmen and gentlemen too—not your half-lord and half-leg.

“There was Lord Abingdon,” continued the old gentlemen, telling them off on his fingers—“Duke of Bolton—Sir Charles Bunbury—Mr. Bradyll—Lord Clermont—Mr. Jolliff—remember his bay horse, Foxhuntoribus by Fox-hunter, well. Then there was Lord Milsintown—Mr. Pulteney—Mr. Panton—Duke of Queensbury—and a host whose names I forget. Ah! those recollections make an old man of me. Well, never mind! I’ve had my day, and the old ’uns must make way for the young;” then, turning short upon Charley, who was glancing at the newspaper as it lay on the table, he said, with a jerk, “Allow me the privilege of inquiring the name of the gentleman I have the honour of addressing.”

This was a poser, and coming after such a string of high-sounding names, poor Charles’s humble one would cut but a poor figure. It so happened, however, that he was just skimming by a sort of sidelong glance the monthly advertisement of the heavy triumvirate, wherein well-known “unknowns” make names for themselves much better than their own. There was “Shooting, by Ranger,” and “Racing by Rover,” and “Fishing, by Flogger,” and in larger letters, as if the great gun of the number, “A Trip to Trumpington, by Pomponius Ego.”

Charles had just got so far as this, when suddenly interrogated as described, when he unconsciously slipped out the words, “Pomponius Ego.”

“Pomponius Ego!” exclaimed the little gentleman, jumping on to his short legs as though he were shot, extending his arms and staring with astonishment, “I never was so out in my life!”

Charley.—“I beg pardon——”

“No apologies, my dear sir,” interrupted our host, resuming his seat with a thump that stotted his short legs off the carpet. “No apology! no apology! no apology! We old men are apt to fancy things, to fancy things, to fancy things—and I candidly confess I pictured Pomponius Ego quite a different sort of man to myself.”

Charles.—“But if you’ll allow me to ex——”

“No explanations necessary, my dear Mr. Ego—Mr. Pomponius Ego, I mean,” jabbered the voluble little old gentleman. “Eat your muffin and sausages, and believe me you’re heartily welcome; I’ve lived long in the world—take some more coffee—there’s tea if you like it, but I never was so out before. Lord! if old Q.¹ could see me!” continued he, clasping his hands, and casting his eyes up to the ceiling.

Charley.—“Well, but perhaps, sir,——”

“There’s no perhaps’s in the matter, my dear sir—no perhaps in the matter; I’ll tell you candidly, I pictured Pomponius Ego a prosy old chap, who went the horse-in-the-mill round of his stories from sheer want of originality and inability to move from home in search of novelty. The only thing that ever staggered me was your constant assertion, that second horses were unknown in Leicestershire in Meynell’s time. Never was a greater fallacy, saving your presence! Always had a second horse out myself, though I only rode eight stun ten—never took soup for fear of getting fat—a host of others had second horses—Lambton and Lockley, and Lindow and Loraine Smith, and—But never mind! don’t assert that again, you know—don’t assert that again. Now take another sausage,” pushing the dish towards Charley in a friendly, forgiving sort of way, as if to atone for the uneasiness the correction had occasioned him.

“But I never said anything of the sort!” exclaimed Charley, reddening up, as soon as he could get a word in sideways.

“Saving your presence, a dozen times,” rejoined the little mercurial old gentleman—“a dozen times at least!” repeated he, most emphatically. “The fact is, my dear sir, I dare say you write so much, you forget what you say. We readers have better memories. I noted it particularly, for it was the only thing that ever shook my conviction of Pomponius Ego being a very old man. But let that pass. Don’t be discouraged. I like your writings, especially the first time over. Few stories bear constant telling; but you’ve a wonderful knack at dressing them up.

By the way, you once cooked up an almanack! and a pretty hash it was, too!” added the little old gentleman. “I’ll tell you what,” continued he, tucking his legs up in his chair, and grasping a knee with each hand; “I’ll tell you what—I’d like to match you against the gentleman that does the cunning advertisements of Rowland’s Odonto or Pearl Dentifrice; I’d lay—”

“Zounds, sir!” interrupted Charles.

“Hear me out,” exclaimed the old gentleman, “hear me out!” repeated he, throwing an arm out on each side of the chair; “I’d match you to lead one further on in an old story, without discovery, than Rowland’s man does with his puffs of paste, or whatever his stuff is.”

“But you are on the wrong scent altogether,” roared Charles; “I’ve nothing to do with Pomponius Ego or Pearl Dentifrice either.”

“Blastation!” screamed the little old gentleman, jumping up frantically into his chair, with a coffee-cup in one hand and a saucer in the other; “Blastation! tell me that, when it’s written in every feature of your face!” So saying, he sent the cup through the window, and clapped the saucer on his head.

“Come and feed the chuck cocks—pretty chuck cocks,” said Aaron, stumping in at the sound of the crash; “come and feed the chuck cocks—pretty chuck cocks,” repeated he soothingly, taking his master down by the arm, and leading him quietly out of the room, observing to Stobbs as they went, “It’s your red coat that’s raisin’ him.”

¹The sporting Lord Queensbury used to be called old Q.