CHAPTER XLIV

PINCH-ME-NEAR FOREST

S if Mr. Jorrocks’s hunting appetite grew by what it fed upon, he passed a very restless, feverish night, dreaming of all sorts of hunting casualities, and greatly disturbing Mrs. Jorrocks’s repose by his evolutions. At length, thinking he was throwing down a stone wall, to pick up his fox, he set his feet against her with such force as sent her flying out of bed, and so finished the performance. Mrs. J. went off to Belinda’s room, and our Master got up, though it was only five o’clock. Early as he was, however, Pigg, who had not gone to bed at all, was before him, and when Mr. Jorrocks got down-stairs, he found him at a sumptuous breakfast with Batsey in the back kitchen. Setting Pigg off to the stable, Mr. Jorrocks took his place at the table, and rated Batsey soundly for encouraging a man of Pigg’s “unsteady ’abits.”

Batsey justified herself on the score of promoting her master’s sport. “Pigg,” she was “sure was nothin’ to her.” She didn’t want to be Mrs. Pigg. Not she, indeed! She could do better than that any day, she ’oped! “Pigg, forsooth!” and she bounced about, and banged the butter upon the muffins and toast, as if her feelings were outraged in the extreme. How the dispute might have ended is doubtful, for in the midst of it Batsey gave Mr. Jorrocks a kidney so hot off the fire, that he burnt his mouth, and as he danced about the kitchen floor, unable to retain it, yet unwilling to give it up, she took advantage of the opportunity and slipped quietly away, to have a cry in her own room. Our Master then finished his breakfast with a blistered mouth, as best he could, and then followed Pigg to the stable.

It was so dark when Pigg gave Mr. Jorrocks his horse, that our Master was obliged to feel along his back to his tail, to be sure that he hadn’t got hold of Xerxes instead of Arterxerxes; for though if our friend had been selling him, he would have sworn that Xerxes was far the best of the two—finest ’oss wot ever was seen, in fact—yet an inconvenient jerk he had with his hind-quarters in his jumps more than counterbalanced any little additional speed he had over Arterxerxes. It took Mr. Jorrocks more time to get shuffled back into his saddle after a leap on Xerxes, than Arterxerxes would have lost by his steady laborious plodding, to say nothing of the inconvenience of riding on a horse’s neck, instead of on his back. But to our story. Pigg, like a prudent man, had coupled the strange hounds with some of their own, or they would have been all over the town in no time. Master and man spurred briskly on, Jorrocks acting whipper-in, and Pigg yoicking and coaxing the hounds to him as best he could. They cleared the town, and got to the Whickenby Gate before the ’pikeman was up; and violent was the clattering, and dread the denunications that Jorrocks hurled at his white cotton night-capped head, when at length he popped it out to inquire the cause of the row.

Our friends didn’t get much use of the hard road for their money, for Pinch-me-near Forest being quite a back-slum sort of place, that nobody ever wanted to see, the roads all seemed to shun it, and it was only by very vague conjectures and speculative cuts that our friends managed to steer towards it at all. Not that the forest itself was worse than any of its Royal brethren; indeed, it was better than some, for Prettyfat neither stole the wood himself, nor knowingly suffered others to steal it, his being the easy do-nothing style of management, that let the trees grow if they liked, or if they didn’t like, let them stand still and die, or be blown down and rot at their leisure. He made his reports regularly and fairly, and so long as he got as much money as paid his own salary and the wages of his labourers, he felt he fulfilled all the duties of a faithful servant of the Crown, and did all that a grateful nation could require.

A very rubicund sun at length began to struggle through the dull leaden clouds, gradually revealing hill and dales, fields, fences, and enclosures, the whole paraphernalia of a landscape, just like a child’s puzzle map getting put together.

“Yon’s it!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks after a careful survey of the now developed scene. “Yon’s it!” repeated he, pointing with his ponderous whip towards a dark mass in the distance.

“Ar’s warned ye, is’t,” replied Pigg, replenishing his mouth with tobacco. “Ar’s warned ye is’t. It’s a gay bit off, though.”

“Trot on!” retorted Mr. Jorrocks anxiously, spurring Arterxerxes vehemently, an insult that the animal resented by a duck of his head and a hoist of his heels.

Bump, bump, trot, trot, squash, splash, swosh, they went through the open fields, over the commons and heaths of a wet, sterile, Pewitey country, which gradually got worse as they neared the stunted brushwood of the straggling forest. At length they came upon a nest of forest squatters, with their wretched mud cabins and rolling fences, by whom they were directed to a smart, well-hung green gate, with a cattle-gap on either side, as the commencement of Mr. Prettyfat’s inattentions. Some well-used horse trods, converging towards a gently rising hill on the right, from whence a curl of clear smoke was now rising, favoured the supposition that the representative of Royalty was not far off. Though the morning was in its pride, yet when our friends got to the front of the neat rose-entwined house,—the windows were as white as the rough cast walls—there were no signs of animation of any sort. “The beggar’s not hup yet, I do believe,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, spurring the great splaw-footed Arterxerxes right on to the trimly shaven grass-plot in the centre of the carriage ring. Rising in his stirrups, and clearing his throat with a prolonged y-e-a-u-u-p! as he prepared his big whip for execution, he gave such a cannonade of a crack, as sounded through the house and reverberated in the forest.

“Sink, but that’s a good ’un!” grinned Pigg, listening to the oft-repeated echoes.

Scarcely were the words out of his mouth, before bang! went a lattice window up above, and a rival of the red-faced sun appeared beneath the night-capped head of the Deputy-surveyor.

“What are you doin’ here?” roared a stentorian voice.

“Rum, ar say! rum!” exclaimed Pigg, thinking he was asking what he would have to drink.

“Doin’ ’ere!” replied Mr. Jorrocks, whose ears had served him better “Doin’ ’ere! vy I be come to ’unt the foxes, to be sure!”

“Hunt the foxes,” retorted Prettyfat, indignantly—“Is this a time to come and hunt foxes—none but chimney-sweeps would disturb one at this hour.”

“Sink, gin ye’ll had mar hus ar’ll get off and fight ’im!” exclaimed Pigg, furious at the comparison.

“Hush!” said Mr. Jorrocks, “let me talk to ’im.”

“Vy, didn’t I tell ye I’d come hearly?” asked our Master, rising in his stirrups and speaking in a eonciliatory tone.

“Come early,” repeated Prettyfat, recollecting the wide-margined official, “come early, yes, but you don’t call tramplin’ on a gen’l’man’s grass-plot comin’ early, do ye? You don’t ’spect to find a fox there.”

“Hoot, thou ’ard feuil, what’s thou grumblin’ ’bout thy grass plat for?” demanded Pigg, in a tone of derision.

“Treasonous, traitrous rogues,” exclaimed Prettyfat. “I’ll hand you over to the law officers of the Crown.”

“Let’s off!” ejaculated Jorrocks, catching Arterxerxes short round by the head—“Let’s off!—I’ve no relish for law, still less for hornamentin’ the top of Temple Bar with my ’ead;” so saying our Master spurred through the pack, and treading on a couple of hounds, raised such a clamour as drowned the further observations of the sylvan Viceroy. Down they dived into the wood again. They had not got very far before they met Prettyfat’s perspiring drab-turned-up-with-grease flunky, panting along with a pitchfork in his hand, who exclaimed, on seeing them—“Oh gen’l’men! gen’l’men! you should ha’ been here a bit sooner (puff), that tarnation fox has been at the (puff) poultry again.”

“You don’t say so!” grinned Mr. Jorrocks, pulling short up and standing erect in his stirrups. “You don’t say so! Show us the way on ’im and I’ll sarve ’im out. Off with the couples, Pigg,” added he, turning to James, who was already on the ground disengaging the draft. Away they tear in all directions, howling and towling like mad. A shrill blast of the horn gets them into a smaller compass, and Mr. Jorrocks trots on, preceded by the man, to show him where he last saw the fox. Old Ravager first drops his stern, feathers, but speaks not, when one of the new noisy ones immediately gives tongue, and the sage taking a fling in advance, gave something between a squeak and a note, which being immediately endorsed by the rest, they drive with an echoing crash into the thick of the forest. Now our friend’s misfortunes commence, for the further they get from the seat of government, the worse the riding becomes. Impervious thickets, through which hounds meuse, but horses can make no way, soon separate them from the pack, whose music falls fainter and fainter on the ear; our anxious Master pushes on, through the wet sterile sand, or slobby quagmires, impeded ever and anon by a fallen tree—in hopes that a favourable turn may again land him with the pack. “Dash my vig,” says he, shortening his hold of Arterxerxes, who all but falls over a fern-concealed log—“dash my vig, I wish I mayn’t brick my neck in this terrible desert—most outlandish place I ever was in.”

“It is a rum place,” observed Pigg, doing the like.

“’Ark! where are they?” asked Mr. Jorrocks, pulling short up, with his hand to his ear.

“They seem arle oour,” replied Pigg; “wish these Quorn dogs may be quite what they oout.”

“It’s the confounded hecho,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, still listening attentively.

“Ar tell ye, they’ve divided,” asserted Pigg.

“Then turn them,” rejoined Mr. Jorrocks.

“Torn them thysel’,” retorted Pigg, dropping his elbows and starting off at a canter.

“Now where’s the man goin’ to?” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, eyeing his fast receding huntsman diving into the thicket. “Wot’s he a leavin’ me ’ere for?” continued he, feeling the desolation of his position. “Wish I may ever find my way out,” continued he, looking around on the grey, unhealthy scene of stunted desolation.

Thinking to stick to Pigg, at all events, our Master set Arterxerxes agoing again, and blobbed on in his deep, black imprints. Sorry work it was for old Arterxerxes, who was no great hand at going through deep. Jorrocks spurred him, and jagged him, and cropped him, and called him all the great lumberin’ henterprizeless beggars he could think of. In the excess of his energy he overshot the mark, and kept right on, instead of turning short up a track on the left. The one he kept, from a uniformly rotten surface, now became alternately soft and hard, the water standing in the hollows like baths, and these Arterxerxes, as if suspicious of treachery, commenced leaping, but possibly finding the trouble greater than he expected, he soon took to blundering through them, squirting the muddy water about in all directions. The forest still continued the same forlorn, unprosperous-looking place; where the wet stood, moss grey, aguish-looking trees were dying by the middle, while higher up, the oaks battled with the briars and other smothering rubbish. Our Master, however, was too busy to observe anything of the sort—all he knew was, that it was werry bad riding. The sound of the horn on the left first caused him to pause and ponder whether he was on the track of Pigg. There were footmarks, but not so fresh as his should be. Another unmistakable twang, and Mr. Jorrocks determined to alter his course. Where all was so bad, there was nothing to choose. Accordingly he swung Arterxerxes short round, and turned him up another rushy, waterlogged track, that seemed to lead in the direction of the horn. Desperately bad the riding was. The nature of the ground seemed to change, and from hoppole-like ash and alder, to be stocked with nothing but stunted birch. The soil was black and peaty, with here and there the outline of a long subsided drain.

“Blow me tight,” muttered Mr. Jorrocks, shortening his hold of his horse, “I wish I mayn’t be gettin’ bogged,” and scarcely were the words out of his mouth ere Arterxerxes floundered up to the shoulders in a moss hag, shooting our friend softly over his head on to his side.

“W-o-a-y, oss! W-o-a-a-y!” roared our Master, now kicking on his back like a lively turtle, expecting to have the struggling animal a-top of him every moment.

“W-o-a-y oss! w-o-a-a-y!” repeated Jorrocks, jerking himself off to the side. The horse beat and plunged, and groaned and heaved, still stemming the black slough of despond, until he got fairly through, when after standing a second or two to shake himself, he set off at an unprovoked trot, leaving our Master in a most unhappy state of bewilderment as to how he should ever catch him, or get home without him.

“Dash the beggar,” groaned Jorrocks, as he saw him rolling his great hind quarters away in the distance. “Dash the beggar, but I wish I was a top on ’im, I’d give ’im summut to run for;” so saying, our Master gathered himself together, and skirting the moss hag, commenced the unpleasant performance of running in top boots. Squish, squash, splash, he floundered, now over the insteps, now up to the ankles, now almost up to the knees. He soon began to sob and sigh—“Oh dear! oh dear;” groaned he, “did ever mortal man see sich a road—might as well try to run in a river. And that confounded quad.,” continued he, eyeing Arterxerxes still on the move. “Dash my vig, but I’d give ye summut to run for if I had ’old on ye—I’d make ye cry ‘Capevi!’ my frind. Drot the road!” exclaimed he, as he plunged into a rush-concealed rut, and squirted the dirty water up into his face. “Well this is a pretty performance,” continued he, mopping himself with a great crimson bandana—“Beats all others into fits Con-found these bye-days. They’re always gettin’ on me into grief. And now the brute’s gone altogether,” as the vista closed without Arterxerxes on the scene. “Ark! I ’ear ’ounds. No, they’re crows. Well, if this isn’t a sickener, I don’t know what is—might as well try to run i’ the mud off ’Ungerford stairs, as in this sludge. Shouldn’t like to clean these bouts I know,” continued he, looking down on his black, and all black, tops. A bit of sound ground again tempted him into a trot, and at length brought him to the rising ground up which great Arterxerxes had disappeared. “Oh dear! oh dear!” groaned Mr. Jorrocks as a stitch in his side suddenly stopped him. “Oh dear! oh dear! I’m regularly floored. Might as well try to follow Halbert Smith hup Mont Blanc as Arterxerxes hup this incorrigible mountain;” so saying our heavily-perspiring Master sought the support of a fallen willow, and distributing himself equitably among its branches, sofa fashion, proceeded to bewail his lamentable condition. “Oh dear! oh dear!” groaned he, “was there ever sich an misfortunit indiwidual as John Jorrocks? was there ever an independent British grocer made sich a football on by fortin? Tossed about the world like an old ’at. Tempted from the ’olesomest, the plisantest, the most salubrisome street i’ London to take these ’ounds, and then be drawn into this unpardonable wilderness. Nothin’ but rushes, and grass that Nebuchadnezzar ’imself would turn up his nose at. Oh dear! oh dear!” continued he, as his thoughts reverted to home and Handley Cross, “shall never see my dinner this day, Torbay soles with Budle cockle sauce, Dartmoor forest mutton, puddin’, and taturs under the meat, ’stead of starvin’ in a dreary desert—happed up by cock robins or other benevolent birds;” a thought that so distracted our Master as to cause him to start and turn in his couch, when the rotten main prop to his back giving way, he came crashing and smashing to the ground.

“There!” ejaculated Mr. Jorrocks, “there!” repeated he, as he lay among the rotten fragments. “Fallen a ’underd feet from the grund! Broke every bone in my skin, I do believe. Bet a guinea ’at to a ’alf-crown gossamer I ’aven’t a ’ole bone i’ my body.” So saying our Master, having carefully shaken first one limb and then another, to ascertain the amount of the mischief, rose slowly from the wet ground, and after anathematising the deceptive unfriendly tree, resumed the tracking of his horse up the hill. His boots were now well “salivated” as he would say, and the cold bog-water poached and churned as he went. But if his feet were cold, his temper was warm, and various were the recreations he promised Arterxerxes. He would ride “his tail off,” then recollecting how little he had, he “would ride him till he dropped.” Then he would “skin him alive, and make his hide into a hair trunk”—then he would cut it into whip thongs—next into shoe-strings—finally he would give him “to the first mugger he met.”

As Mrs. Glasse would say, however, “first catch your horse,” and this seemed a remote possibility, for though our Master in the course of a two miles’ tramp, which he called ten, did get a view of him once, the grass was of too coarse and uninviting a character to induce the animal to take more than a passing snatch as he went, which he did at a pace that seemed well calculated to last for ever. At length our Master was fairly exhausted, and coming to a part of the forest that ran out into rocks and sandy heathery hills, he threw himself upon his back on a large flat stone, and kicking up first one leg and then the other, to let the bog-water out of his boots, moaned and groaned audibly. Beginning at a guinea, he bid up to a hundred and twenty, to be back at Handley Cross, and two hundred and fifty to be back in Great Coram Street, clear of the ’ounds and all belonging to them. And he vowed that if Diana would only ’ave the kindness to come to his assistance that once, he would never trouble her with any more of his vagaries. No, indeed he wouldn’t, he would sell his ’ounds and his ’osses, burn his boots and his Beckford, and drive about in a pill-box the rest of his life.