CHAPTER XLIII

M.F.H. BUGGINSON

Now Mr. Jorrocks’s bagman, Bugginson, or “representative,” as he calls himself, had, since his master’s elevation to the fox-hunting throne, affected the sportsman a good deal, dressing in cut-away coats, corduroy trousers, and sometimes even going so far as gosling-green cords and very dark tops, and talking about our ’ounds, our country, and so on; and this great swell strayed incautiously, at half-cock (for it was after luncheon), into Mr. Chaffey’s repository at Muddlesworth, in company with a couple of local swells, when, as bad luck would have it, the worthy auctioneer was dispersing the “splendid hunting establishment” of Sir Guy Spanker, under a writ of execution from the Sheriff of Fleetshire. He had got through the valuable collection of screws, and was just putting up the first lot of hounds, ten couple of dogs, in the usual flourishing style of the brotherhood, beginning at an outrageous price and gradually getting down-stairs to a moderate one, when booted Bugginson and Co. entered.

“What will any gen’leman give for this superb lot of hounds?” demanded Chaffey, throwing his voice towards Bugginson, “what will any gen’leman give for this superb lot of hounds, unmatched and unmatchable?”

“Doubt that,” winked Bugginson to Jim Breeze, one of his chums, intimating that he thought “theirs” were better.

“What will any gen’leman give?” repeated the auctioneer, flourishing his little hammer, “five ’underd guineas—will any gen’leman give five ’underd guineas for them?” asked he hastily, as if expecting them to be snapped up in a moment.

“Four ’underd guineas!

“Three ’underd guineas!

“Two ’underd guineas!

“One ’underd guineas!

“Will any gen’leman give a ’underd guineas for this splendid lot of dog-hounds—the fleetest, the stoutest, the gamest hounds in England? No gen’leman give one ’underd guineas for them!” exclaimed he, in a tone of reproach. Then apparently recovering his mortification, he proceeded,—

“Fifty guineas!

“Forty guineas!

“Thirty!

“Ten! Will any gen’leman give ten guineas!” inquired he.

“Shillings!” exclaimed Bugginson, knowingly, knocking off the end of his cigar.

“Thank’e, sir!” exclaimed the auctioneer, glad of an offer.

Bugginson felt foolish. He wished he “hadn’t”; still he thought there was no chance of their going for that. Chaffey hurried on.

“Ten shillin’s is only bid!—any advance on ten shillin’s?—going for ten shillin’s—anybody give more than ten shillin’s! can’t dwell! must be sold—only ten shillin’s bid—third and last time for ten shillin’s, goin’ (tap), gone.”

“Going (tap), gone!” Ominous words! What a thrill they send through one’s frame. “Going (tap) gone.” Oh, dear, who shall describe the feelings of poor swaggering Bugginson thus let in for ten couple of hungry-looking hounds—four or five and twenty inch dogs!—Bugginson, who had never had to do with a dog of any sort in his life, suddenly becoming the owner of a pack of hounds—an M.F.H. like his master. “M.F.H. Bugginson presents his compliments to M.F.H. Jorrocks,” &c.

“Deuced cheap,” “dog cheap!” exclaimed his now exalted companions.

“Very,” simpered Bugginson, wishing he was well out of them.

“Where to, yer ’oner?” now demanded a ragged Irishman, who had seized the great bunch of dogs from the man of the yard as they came from the rostrum.

“Stop,” muttered the man of the yard, “the gen’l’man ’ill be buyin’ some more.”

“Will he?” thought Bugginson, eyeing the unruly lot pulling away in all directions, adding to himself. “Catch me at that game again.”

“Take them to the ‘Salutation,’ ” said Bugginson pompously, “and tell the ostler to put them into a stable.”

“Half-a-croon,” yer ’oner!” demanded the man.

“Half-a-crown!” retorted Bugginson, “why, I only gave ten shillin’s for the lot.”

“So much the better! Sure, then, yer ’oner can afford to pay me liberal and bountiful.”

“But half-a-crown’s out of all reason,” retorted Bugginson, angrily; “why, it’s not fifty yards,” shortening the distance one half.

“Raison or no raison,” replied Pat, “I’ll not take them for less;” and Bugginson, seeing by the desperate rush some of the hounds made to get at a bunch of comrades now coming to the hammer, that he could do nothing with them himself, was obliged to submit to the extortionate demand.

Though Bugginson was too knowing a hand to exhibit symptoms of mortification at the mess his swagger had got him into, he was not to be persuaded into bidding for any more; and in vain Mr. Chaffey expatiated on the merits of the next lots, intimating his opinion that Bugginson ought at least to make up his twenty couple.

Bugginson simpered, chucked up his chin, haw-haw’d, and thanked him, but was “only making up his number”; and having remained sufficiently long to look as if he was quite unconcerned, he repaired to his hotel, to take another look at the animals, which he thought of turning loose upon the town during the night, when an unfinished letter to his master—we beg pardon, his “principal”—stating who he had seen, who he had “drawn,” who he had been told was “respectable,” and who the reverse, caused him to alter his plans, and to add a P.S., saying he hoped Mr. Jorrocks would allow him to offer him a Christmas-box, in the shape of ten couple of very fine fox-hounds, late the property of Sir Guy Spanker, Baronet, which he had had the good fortune to meet with, and which he would forward by the 9.30 a.m. luggage train, with directions to be passed on to the Lily-white-sand Line, by the 11.20.

“Con-found all presents wot eat!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, on reading the announcement. “Con-found all presents wot eat!” repeated he, with a hearty slap of his thigh. At first he was half inclined to work the wires, and bid Bugginson keep them himself. On second thoughts, however, he recollected that rope was cheap enough, and as he was drawing some of his hounds rather fine (being desperately addicted to bye-days), with the Pinch-me-near proposal in hand, he thought they might be worth looking at, perhaps. Accordingly, he despatched Pigg to the station, who in due time arrived with what James called “a cannyish lot o’ hunds, only they hadn’t getten ne neames,” names being a thing Bugginson never thought of asking for, or the Sheriff of Fleetshire of supplying. In truth, they looked better than they were; for, like most first lots at a sale, they were anything but the pick of the pack. There were skirters, mute runners, and noisy ones, besides a few worn-out old devils, that could evidently do nothing but eat. These Jorrocks condemned without a hearing, and so reduced the lot to eight couple. Mr. Jorrocks told Pigg they were a draft from the Quorn, with a good deal of the Trueman blood in them; and though James did say he was “warned they’d be good for nout, or they wadn’t ha’ parted with them at that time of year,” still the announcement had a very favourable effect in ingratiating them in Pigg’s favour. Thus reinforced, Mr. Jorrocks ventured to broach the subject of another bye-day, against which Pigg had lately been protesting, vowing that Jorrocks would have both “husses and hunds worked off their legs afore he knew where he was.” To our Master’s surprise, Pigg didn’t make any objection to the forest.

“Wy, wy, sir,” replied James, scratching his head and turning his quid, “it winna be a bad place, ar dinna think.”

“Vot, you know it, do you?” asked Mr. Jorrocks.

“Why now, ar canna say as how ar ken this forest, but ar kens what a forest is weal enough, and this ’ll be gay like arle others, ar’s warned.”

“All bog and bother,” suggested Mr. Jorrocks.

“Arle bog and bother, no! what should put that i’ yer head?”

Mr. Jorrocks.—“They tell me this one is—”

Pigg.—“It winna be like wors, then. When canny ard Lambton hunted our country, arve been i’ Chopwell wiles, and the rides were jest like race-coourses.”

Mr. Jorrocks (in astonishment).—“You don’t say so! That’ll be a well-kept place, then, with great trees growin’ as they ought?”

Pigg.—“Deil a bit! Deil a bit! The rides was arle they minded. The man o’ the woods gat the grass for his cows, and so he kept the rides verra canny. The woods was just like bad nursery grunds—nothin’ but switches. They tell me,” continued Pigg, “sin ar come’d away, that they’ve had the ’Marican reapin’ machine at work, mowin’ them down.”

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, “wot an age of impruvment this is!”

“Aye,” continued Pigg, turning his quid, “and now they’re gannin’ to growin’ a crop o’ pea-sticks on the same grund.”

“I wish they’d grow faggot-sticks,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, “for Batsey uses an uncommon lot lightin’ the fires; but, ’owsomever, never mind, that’s not the pint—the pint is, that we’ll go to the forest, and take this new lot of ’ounds, and see wot they’re made on.”

“Wy, wy,” replied Pigg, “wy, wy, ar’s quite ’greeable.”

“Jest you and I,” observed Jorrocks; “it’s no use taking Ben.”

“De’il a bit!” replied Pigg, with disdain, “de’il a bit!”

“You on Young Hyson, me on Arterxerxes,” continued Mr. Jorrocks.

“Ye’d better ride t’other,” replied Pigg; “ye’re niver off t’ard husses back.”

“Do the great rumblin’-stomached beggar good,” replied Mr. Jorrocks; “goes jest as if he ’ad a barrel o’ milk churnin’ in his inside.”

“Wy, wy, sir,” replied Pigg, “ye ken best; only, ye see, if ye brick him down, ye see ye’ll not git such another—not i’ these parts, at least.”

“Oh, never fear,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, carelessly, “there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out on it. No man need want a quad long wot ’ill pay for one,” he continued, hustling the silver vigorously in his pantaloon pocket.

“Wy, wy, sir,” replied Pigg, “ye ken best, ye ken best. Then we’ll fix it so, and ar’ll tak these new hunds i’ couples, and a few of our own to show them the way like.”

“Jest so,” assented Mr. Jorrocks.

And so master and man parted.