CHAPTER XLVI

THE SHORTEST DAY

Mr. Jorrocks’s next adventure in the hunting line originated in a very furious letter from a gentleman, signing himself “John Gollarfield, farmer, Hardpye Hill,” complaining bitterly of the devastation of his hen-roost, and calling loudly for vengeance against the foxes. Accordingly our Master made a meet for Hardpye Hill, instead of Langton Pound, as he intended.

The road to the hill lying through some roomy enclosures, and Christmas having let loose its enterprise upon the country, great was the sporting and racing that marked the line there. Mr. Jorrocks, arrayed in his best pink, jogged pompously on with his cavalcade, receiving the marked attention of the country. Arrived at the hill, he turned into a grass field to give his hounds a roll and hear the news of the day—how Miss Glancey was after Captain Small—how Mrs. Buss had captivated old Frill. Then, when the cantering, smoking cover hack swells came up, they resolved themselves into a committee of taste, scrutinizing this hound and that, passing their opinions on the pack generally, and on the Bugginson hounds in particular. Some thought they were coarse, some thought they were common; but when they heard they were drafts from the Quorn, they were unanimous in thinking they must be good—especially when Mr. Jorrocks broadly hinted he had given Day ten guineas a couple for them. The noise the party made prevented their hearing sundry ominous moans and lows in the neighbourhood, which gradually rose to a roar, until a simultaneous crash, and cry of “Mind the bull!” drew all eyes to the bank of the adjoining fence, where, with head down and tail up, a great roan bull was seen poising himself preparatory to making a descent upon the field. Down he came with a roar that shook the earth to the very centre, and sent the field flying in all directions. Mr. Jorrocks, who was on foot among his hounds, immediately rushed to his horse, which Ben had let loose, but making a bad shot at the stirrup, he became a point d’appui for the bull, who after him with a vigour and determination that looked very like a finisher. Our Master was carried, clinging to the neck, half across the field in a “now on, now off” sort of way that would have made any one feel very uncomfortable who had an annuity depending on his life. At last he got fairly into his saddle, and setting himself down to ride, he threw his heart boldly over a stiff “on and off,” and shoved Xerxes at it in a way that proved too many for the bull. Ploughing up the pasture with his feet, in his effort to stop himself as he neared it, he tossed his great widehorned head in the air, and uttering a frightful bellow that thundered through the valley and reverberated on Hardpye Hill, he turned, tail erect, to take a run at some one else. And having succeeded by the aid of gates in placing a couple more enclosures between them, Mr. Jorrocks sought a rising ground from which he thought over the magnitude of his adventure, and how he would like to have Leech to draw him taking the leap. And having gained breath as he magnified it, and having duly congratulated himself upon his escape, he out with his horn and blew his hounds together, leaving Hardpye Hill as he came, and entering among the anathemas in his Journal the following:—

“Con-found all farmers, say I, wot don’t tie up their bulls!”

A bad beginning in this case did not make a good ending, for though our Master drew on till dark, which it was at half-past two, he never had a touch of a fox, and he sent word to Gollarfield, by the mole-catcher, that he was a “reg’lar ’umbug,” and Pigg desired the man to add that he would fight him for what he pleased.