CHAPTER XLV

A FRIEND IN NEED

UR Master was interrupted in the midst of his groans and lamentations by a low voice dropping down upon him with a “Are you hurt, sir?” and starting up, he encountered the sinister gaze of a haggard-looking man, dressed in a cap and complete suit of dirty grey tweed.

“Are you hurt, sir?” repeated the man, not getting an answer to his former inquiry.

“Hurt, sir!” replied Mr. Jorrocks, eyeing him as though he expected an immediate stand and deliver; “hurt, sir! No, sir!” clutching his formidable hammer-headed whip, “I’ve lost my ’oss.”

“Oh, that’s all, is it?” sneered the man.

“D’ye call that nothin’?” retorted Mr. Jorrocks, bridling up.

“My little gal said she thought you’d broke your back by the noise you were makin’,” replied the man.

“Did she?” rejoined Mr. Jorrocks, feeling he had been making a great fool of himself. “Did she? Then tell your little gal she’d made a mistake.”

“Then I can’t do nothin’ for you?” observed the man, after a pause.

“In course you can,” replied Mr. Jorrocks; “you can catch my ’oss for me.”

“Is he near at hand?” asked the man.

Mr. Jorrocks.—“That I don’t know. Far or near, I’ll give ye ’alf-a-crown for bringin’ ’im to me.”

“Doubt I daren’t ventur,” replied the man reluctantly.

Mr. Jorrocks.—“Huts, there’s nobody to ’urt ye.”

“Can’t go so far from home,” rejoined the man.

Mr. Jorrocks (brightening up).—“Wot! you live near ere, do ye?”

“Not far off,” replied the man, with a jerk of his head, as much as to say, “I’m not going to tell you.”

Mr. Jorrocks.—“Well, but p’raps you could get me summut to drink, for my ’oss has run away with my monkey, and I’m fit to die of habsolute unquenchable thirst.”

The man eyed him suspiciously, and at length drawled out, “What, you’ve been hunting, have you?”

“’Deed, ’ave I,” replied our Master; “started afore daylight.”

“It ’ill be Mr. Jorrocks, I dessay,” observed the man, with an air of enlightenment.

“Wot, you knows me, do ye?” exclaimed our Master, brightening up.

“Yes, sir—no, sir—that’s to say, sir, I know your huntsman, sir—Mr. Pigg, sir.”

“Indeed,” mused Mr. Jorrocks.

“Mr. Pigg and I are very old friends, sir,” continued the man, “very old friends, indeed—most respectable man, Mr. Pigg, sir—most fortunate in having such a servant.”

“Humph,” grunted Mr. Jorrocks, not being quite so sure of that.

“Finest sportsman in the world, sir,” continued the man—“finest sportsman in the world, sir—can do a’most anything—sing a song, dance a jig, grin for baccy, play dominoes, prick i’ the belt, or thimble-rig. If that man could have got a spirit license he’d ha’ made a fortin. He’d ha’ bin the first man o’ the day.”

“In-deed,” mused our Master.

“Most accomplished gentleman,” continued the speaker—“most accomplished gentleman. I’d rayther have James Pigg for a partner than any man I ever saw.”

“And pray may I ax your name?” inquired our Master, curious to know something more of his huntsman’s friend.

“Oh, my name’s Turveylow, Tom Turveylow, but he won’t know me by that name. Whiskey Tim,” added he, dropping his voice with a knowing leer, “is the name he’ll know me by.”

“I twig,” winked our Master. “You ’aven’t a drop o’ the cretur with ye, ’ave ye?”

“Hard-bye,” replied the man, “hard-bye,” jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

“Let’s at it,” said Mr. Jorrocks, brightening up.

“You’re safe, I s’pose?” hesitated the man.

“Honour bright,” replied Mr. Jorrocks: “wouldn’t peach if it was ever so—”

“Well, I don’t think any friend of Pigg’s would,” said the man, gaining courage; so saying, he wheeled about, and beckoning Jorrocks to follow him, led the way across the sharp sandy heath, towards a precipitous range of rocks, whose heights commanded an extensive view over the forest and surrounding country. It was towards their rugged base that they now directed their steps. Passing some large upright stones that guarded the entrance to a sort of outer court, they came all at once upon the smuggler’s cave.

“Bow your head and bow your body,” said the man, turning and suiting the action to the word as he reached the frowning portcullis-like rock that guarded the entrance.

“Come on! come on! you’ve nothin’ to fear,” cried he, seeing Jorrocks stood irresolute, “there’s no honester man in the world than your humble servant.”

“Self-praise is no commendation,” muttered our Master, going down on all fours preparatory to creeping under the beetling rock. This let him into the smuggler’s ante-room, a cold, damp, dropping den, formed from a natural cavity in the rock. Beyond was a larger, loftier cave, and over a bright wood fire, illuminating the hard walls, was a fine Venetian-shaped girl, in a tight blue bodice and red flannel petticoat, chucking the savoury contents of a frying-pan up in the air.

Her back being turned, she was not aware of the enterers, until her temporary lord and master exclaimed, “Sally! here’s old keep-the-tambourine-a-roulin’s master.”

“Lawk, Jim! ’ow could you bring a gent when I ’aven’t got my stockin’s on?” exclaimed the lady, whisking round and showing the beautiful symmetry of her delicate white legs. She then turned her lustrous eyes upon our friend and basilisked him with a smile. Mr. Jorrocks stood transfixed. He thought he had never seen a greater beauty. Sir Archy Depecarde’s housekeeper was nothing to her.

“Take a seat, sir, take a seat,” said the smuggler, sweeping a bundle of nets and snares off a stool—for of course he combined the trade of poacher with that of smuggler—and placing it behind our Master. Mr. Jorrocks did as he was bid, and sat lost in the novelty of the scene, the beauty of the lady, and the savouriness of the pig’s-fry she was cooking.

“You’ll take your dinner with us, sir, I hope,” said the smuggler, possessing himself of our Master’s hat and whip. “You’ll take your dinner with us, sir, I hope,” adding, as he chucked them into a corner, “any friend of Pigg’s is welcome here.”

“Much plissur,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, who all of a sudden waxed “uncommon hungry.”

“Get the gent a plate and things, Ann,” said the smuggler to the little girl who had reported J.’s vagaries on his back.

The implements of eating were quickly placed on the already set-out table, and our party were presently at work at the fry, which was followed by roast potatoes and a jugged hare, late a tough old denizen of the forest; oat-cake, cheese, and bottled ale completed the repast. Mr. Jorrocks plyed a most satisfactory knife and fork, declaring, as he topped up with a heavy cannonade of whiskey, that he couldn’t have dined better with the Grocers’ Company.

“Good stuff that,” said the smuggler, with a knowing wink at the bright sparkling whiskey.

“Capital,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, replenishing his glass.

“I toast you, sir,” said the smuggler, bowing, glass in hand, to our master.

“You do me proud,” said Mr. Jorrocks, returning the salute.

“Not at all, sir,” replied the condescending host. “I believe you to be a most respectable man.”

Mr. Jorrocks next looked towards the lady, who acknowledged the compliment with a sweet glance.

The smuggler then, as in duty bound, gave the health of his royal partner, the Queen, after which other loyal and patriotic toasts followed, and Mr. Jorrocks gave the ladies generally, adding, as he leered at his hostess, that he “liked a fine well-flavoured ’ooman.” He then began to get noisy. It was the old story.

“You must (hicoup) with my ’ounds (hiccup), best ’ounds goin’ (hiccup), best ’ounds in (hiceup) England. Best ’ounds in (hiccup) Europe—best ’ounds in (hiccup) Europe, Hasia, Hafrica, ’Merica—(hiccup).” Then, as he rolled about on his stool, forgetting there was no back to it, he lost his balance, and kicking up the ricketty table with his toes, came heavily down on his back. What happened after is matter of uncertainty, for the next thing our master remembers was finding himself getting transferred from a light-tilted cart on a bright frosty night into a Handley Cross fly, at Rosemary Lane gate; but when he came to pay the man his fare he found his purse was gone, which he might have thought had dropped out of his pocket into the cart, were it not that his watch was wanting too. However, being at home, he just told Betsy to pay the fare, and clambered upstairs to bed as if nothing “ ’ticlar” had happened. And next day Pigg gave such a wonderful account of the run, and how he would have killed the fox half-a-dozen times if he had only had Jorrocks to help him, that our Master, forgetting all his promises to Diana, very soon had another turn at the forest.