CHAPTER LI

THE POMPONIUS EGO DAY

A thick white rind powdered the face of Nature, and Mr. Jorrocks found himself with a beautiful silver-foliaged window in the morning. Still the evergreens in the garden exhibited no symptoms of a nipping, and as the night-clouds cleared off, and the sun stood forth all lurid in the firmament, he congratulated himself on the appearance of opening day. Mrs. Jorrocks, Belinda, Stobbs, Betsy, and Benjamin were up with the lark, all busy preparing for the great well-known unknown. A fly was despatched to the Datton station of the Lily-white-sand railway to meet him, and, punctual to his time, Ego turned out at Diana Lodge, enveloped in shawls, numerous great-coats, and a pair of French-jointed clogs to keep his feet warm. Mutual salutations being over, and having got rid of his husks, breakfast was attacked with a true railway appetite—kidneys, chops, eggs, muffins, crumpets, toast, red herrings, and all the delicacies of the season in short, that make one’s mouth water to write, vanished in succession, aided by large draughts of undeniable tea and coffee from “the Lane,” as Mr. Jorrocks calls his place of business. At length they completely topped up, and after begging some brandy to put in his flask, Ego rose from his seat and began pacing about the room and looking out of the window, as men are in the habit of doing who want to be commencing a “New Series” of the periodical occupations of life. Stobbs had a bad headache—or pretended to have one, not wanting to be butter’d.

Ten o’clock came, and as it struck, James Pigg and Benjamin appeared outside the white rails before Diana Lodge, clad in their best habiliments, mounted, and each leading a horse. Uncommonly spicy they all looked, for Pigg, regardless of expense, had generously divided a penny’s-worth of ginger among the four, so that their tails stuck up like hat-pegs, and, as if in sympathy with the horses, Gabriel Junks flew on to the summit of the gateway arch, and expanded a glorious tail to the rays of the sun, at the same time setting up a scream that startled the horses. Forth sallied Ego and Jorrocks; up went the bedroom window for Betsy to look out, Mrs. Jorrocks appeared framed in the lower one, with a face of most rubicund hue, while Belinda peeped past the green and white chintz curtain, and had her glimpse of the scene.

“There!” said Mr. Jorrocks, pulling up short at the gate, seizing Ego by the arm as he pointed to his stud; “there! there are a lot of nags for you—none of your cat-legged, tumble-down, kick-me-off, brik-my-neck, split-my-skull beggars; but real seasoned ’unters, sure and steady, with an eye for each foot, and one over. Binjimin,” said he, turning to the boy, “take up those stirrups three ’oles, and don’t let me catch you ridin’ like a dragon. Now, Mr. Hego, be arter mountin’—time’s precious, and punctuality is the purliteness of princes. There,” said he, as Ego got himself into his saddle on Talavera, “you are mounted—delightful! make a pictor for Leech! Gave a mint o’ money for that ’oss, but I doesn’t care a dump ’bout money, further nor as it enables one to pursue the plisurs o’ the chase.—Pigg, put Arterxerxes next the rails, so that I may get on easy. Whoay, ’oss! Whoay!” roared Jorrocks, as the horse began fidgeting and hoisting, on feeling his foot in the stirrup. “Whoay! I say, you hugly brute!” adding, “rot ye, but I’ll take the gay insolence out o’ your tail afore night.” A bold effort lodged him in the first floor of the saddle, and, gathering up his reins, Jorrocks turned Arterxerxes’ head from the house, the horse walking with his fore legs, and kicking with his hind ones, an example immediately followed by the other three. Away they all go, kicking and snorting, amid the renewed screams of the peacock and the shouts of the little boys who had congregated about.

The kennel reached, the pack were soon round Pigg’s horse’s heels, and after a few consequential cracks of his whip, and cries of “Go on, hounds! go on! to him! to him!” from Benjamin, as they proceeded through the streets, which, as usual, were all commotion to see them pass, they cleared the town and entered upon the hedgerows of the country.

Jorrocks now began to feel the full force of his situation, and inwardly wished himself well out of it.

“A niceish lot of hounds,” observed Ego, casually, as he brought his horse alongside James Pigg, “to look him over,” as he calls it; and Pigg, who was rather sprung, instead of capping him, gave him a most unceremonious stare.

“A dom’d nice pack! ar should say,” replied Pigg.

“Humph!” said Ego to himself, “a rummish genius this, I guess—I am Pom-po-nius Ego,” observed he, with an air of annihilation.

“Sae they say,” replied Pigg, turning his quid. ‘What’s your cracks?”

“What’s your whats?” repeated Ego to himself, without being able to hit off the scent. “Who told you I was Ego?” inquired he, after a pause, during which he kept scrutinizing Pigg.

Pigg.—“Whe tell’t me? Why, Jorrocks, to be sure Whe else should?”

“Whe else should?” repeated Ego, in disgust. “You’re a pretty fellow for a huntsman.”

“Ye’ll be wantin’ a ticket, ar’s warn’d,” observed Pigg, pulling one of his 5s. pink pasteboards out of his waistcoat pocket and tendering it to him.

Ego looked unutterable things.

“Well, my frind, and vot do you think of the ’ounds?” inquired Mr. Jorrocks, who had had a suck at his monkey, riding up at this critical period. “Some of the real sort for makin’ them cry ‘Capevi’—all workmen—no skirtin’, babblin’, overrunnin’ beggars kept for show merely because they are ’andsome—’andsome is wot ’andsome does, is my happhorism?”

“A very good motto, Mr. Jorrocks,” observed Ego; “a very good motto. We shall see presently what they are made of. They seem a goodish sort of hound—level—if anything, rather full of flesh.”

“A werry good fault, too, at this time o’ year; we shall soon work them fine enough,” replied Mr. Jorrocks.

“As fine as Sam Nichol had his, eh?—that poor John Warde used to say a man had only to take his shaving-pot into the kennel, lather his face, and scrape his face with the back of a hound—he, he, he! good joke that, Mr. Jorrrocks, eh?”

“Haw! haw! haw! werry good joke, Mr. Hego, werry good joke, indeed—have laughed at it werry often—werry old friend o’ yours and mine, that joke. S’pose it will be due again soon? Shall be ready to laugh at it again when it appears.”

“Mixed pack, I see,” now observed Ego, who had been scrutinizing the hounds as they trotted quietly along.

“Mixed pack,” repeated Jorrocks, gaily, adding; “dogs I thinks correct the wolatile natur’ o’ the betches. I ’old wi’ Mr. Craven Smith,” continued he, “that though the betches are quicker nor the dogs, they do not always show the same sport, or kill the most foxes—another thing is, I likes plenty o’ music, and the betches are not so free wi’ their tongues as the dogs, and sometimes slip away without one’s knowing it, which is inconwenient, as it doesn’t look well for a gen’leman, ’specially for an M.F.H., to go gallopin’ ’bout the country, exclaimin’, ‘’Ave you seen my ’ounds? ’ave you seen my ’ounds?’ ”

“That will not often happen with you, Mr. Jorrocks, I should think,” observed Ego, smiling at our friend’s substantial form.

“Not often,” replied our Master, with a chuck of the chin; “not often—still it might, and one doesn’t like bein’ left i’ the lurch.”

“Certainly not,” assented Ego; “certainly not—nothing like being on good terms with your hounds and your banker.”

“Nothin’.” replied Jorrocks, “’specially wi’ sich beauties as mine,” looking lovingly down upon the pack.

“Some fairish-looking animals among them,” observed Ego, with upturned lip.

“Fairish-lookin’ hanimals ’mong ’em,” retorted Jorrocks; “fairish-lookin’ hanimals ’mong ’em; I tells ye wot,” continued he, drawing breath; “if they’re not ’zactly the ’andsomest pack o’ ’ounds i’ the kingdom, they’re the steadiest—the wisest—and the best!”

“In-deed!” bowed Ego, with a supercilious smile.

“True guiders of a scent in ’ard runnin’, close, patient ’unters with a cold scent, and as stout as steel.”

“In-deed!” bowed Ego again.

“I’m not a conceited hass,” observed Jorrocks, boiling up, “wot thinks everything I ’ave is the best; and if I ’ears of good blood anywhere, I’ll ’ave it—as I said afoor, I doesn’t care twopence about tin, further nor as it enables me to pursue the plisures o’ the chase.”

“That’s your ticket!” exclaimed Ego.

“Sink ye, ye wadn’t ha’ it just now,” observed Pigg over his shoulder, thinking the great man had changed his mind, and wanted his insurance ticket against hunting accidents.

“To hobtain a good run,” continued Mr. Jorrocks, vehemently, without noticing either of these interruptions, “to hobtain a good run, your ’ounds should not only ’ave good abilities, but they should be hexperienced and well ’quainted with each other. To guide a scent well over a country for a length o’ time, through all the hintricacies and difficulties o’ the chase, requires first chop abilities,” added he, with a hearty slap of his thigh.

“So it does,” assented Ego.

“Keep the tambourine a-roulin’!” exclaimed Pigg, who had been reining in his horse to hear his master bounce.

“Yooi doit! there Warrior!” added he, with a crack of his whip to a hound that was leading others out of ear-shot.

“There’s a fine ’ound,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, again arresting the great man’s attention by pointing out old Ravager, now trotting singly along the footpath.

“You’ll most likely be wishin’ to say summut soapy and plisant ’bout the pack, and you can’t lay it too thick on to him—Ravager, by Lord Yarborough’s Rallywood out of his Ringlet. Would gladly give fifty guineas a couple for a few more sich. That’s a nice dog too, Fugleman,” pointing a speckled black and white one out. “Fugleman,¹ by the Beaufort Potentate out of Foljambe’s Frantic; so’s that,” pointing to a mealy-coloured hound; “Dorimont, by Drake’s Duster out of the Belvoir Blameless. Dorimont! old bouy!” continued Mr. Jorrocks, rising in his stirrups, and chucking him a bit of biscuit for answering to his name. “Dorimont, old bouy! mind the heyes of Hengland are ’pon you! In fact,” continued Mr. Jorrocks, sousing himself into his great saddle, and dropping his voice as he took Ego confidentially by the elbow, “in fact, you can’t say too much in praise o’ the pack—Quads neither. I’m not a wain man,” continued Mr. Jorrocks, “far from it—but merit should be noticed, and it’s not never of no manner of use keeping one’s candle under a bushel. Is it?” asked he, anxiously.

“Not a bit!” replied Ego, with another slight upward curl of his lip.

Our friends then bumped on for some time in silence, Jorrocks wondering what Ego thought of him, and Ego wondering if Jorrocks was really the liberal, indifferent man about money he represented himself to be. Jorrocks was half inclined to ask Ego how he proposed buttering him, lest there might be any mistake, but just as he was going to pop the tender question, Arterxerxes gave such a terrible stumble, as nearly sent him out of his saddle. He then took to jagging and objurgating the horse, which put it out of his head, and by the time he got himself and his horse appeased, he was thinking of his dinner.

As they proceeded, the spangled hedges dropped their jewels—the fields gradually resumed their pristine hue—and on reaching Bumpmead Heath, all nature smiled with the sweetness of premature spring. What a concourse was there! Flys, carriages, gigs, hunters, hacks, donkeys, all to see an author on horseback!

“There!” said Mr. Jorrocks, pointing to the field as they turned from the road and entered the wide expanding common, “wot an ’unt mine is! Shall present them to you in reg’lar rotation—largest subscribers fust, and so on, down to the three-guinea coves. This little podgy cock on the cob is Latitat the lawyer. Bein’ a werry thick-winded little sinner, they call him Whezey, junior. Yon bouy on the brown, that is fidgetin’ about as though he didn’t like his load, is Squire Barnington, the man wot wanted to be master; he gives fifty. My missis and his don’t ’it it, but we are werry good friends. He buys ’osses like a brick, without bringin’ all the relations and frinds of this world to ’sist ’im. Barnington!” holloaed Jorrocks to him, “come and be presented to the mighty Hego. This be him, with the bird’s-eye fogle round his squeeze—coolish mornin’, you see, and Hegotists² are scarce—keeps his throat warm.” Mr. Barnington and Ego made mutual salutations with their hats. “Hooi, Fleecy!” roared Jorrocks to his secretary, who was poking about among the group on a long-tailed rat of a pony, with a slip of paper in his hand and a pencil between his teeth, “come and pay your devours to Hego, the man wot makes us all famous. This be my sec.,” observed Mr. Jorrocks to Ego, adding in a lower tone, “Does a little word-combin’ himself at times—signs himself Junius Secundus—you twig!”

“Proud to make the personal acquaintance of Junius Secundus,” observed Ego, bowing and laying his hand upon his breast. “Often heard of him.” Fleeceall brings his hat in contact with his heel.

“This be old Barleycorn,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, stopping a jolly-looking farmer, in dark clothes, on a good-looking brown horse; “a werry good friend to ’unting—always goes fust over his own wheat.”

Pomponius Ego vouchsafed him a bow.

“Here comes a cove now,” observed Jorrocks, laying hold of Ego’s arm. “Jest look at this chap i’ the cap and cut-away coat, with the bridle all over buckles. ‘Dis arter six,’ I calls him. His mother gets her tea o’ me, and when this young blade came to settle the bill, he wanted dis arter six. Dis arter six!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, with an emphasis. “As if anybody ever ’eard o’ dis arter six! The dirty-looking dog in the plum-coloured coat and dingy Napoleons wot’s jest joined ’im, we call ‘Two upon Ten’—they ’unt in couples, Dis arter six and Two upon Ten. They took poor Two for a thief, and wen he went into the shops, they used to sing out ‘Two upon ten! two upon ten!’ meanin’ two eyes on ten fingers—haw! haw! haw!” chuckled our Master, adding, “I won’t interduce neither o’ them. But ’ere comes a good chap,” continued he, “Ridge the slater, gives ten pund, and pays it too. Slates, old bouy!” continued Jorrocks, beckoning him, “come this way, and let me be the makin’ on you. Let me interduce you to the great Mr. Hego, King o’ the Chase, I may call ’im.” Ridge made as bountiful a bow as though he expected an order to roof in a palace.

“’Ere’s another good chap,” continued Mr. Jorrocks, “Pigott the master plasterer—M.P., as he calls himself. ’Ere, Piggy,” continued Jorrocks, hailing him, “let me do the splendacious by you. Mr. Hego, let me interduce a reg’ler brick—fire-brick, in fact—gives sivin pund to the ’ounds, and pays it too.‘’

“Most praiseworthy character,” observed Ego, with a salaam.

“And ’ere’s another good cove,” continued Jorrocks, “Sugar the grocer. He’s a payin’ subscriber, too—gives ten pund.”

“Five,” observed Sugar—whose real name was Smith, with a smile.

“Five, is it?” growled Mr. Jorrocks, adding aloud to himself, “shalln’t interduce you, then. You chap trottin’ along as if his wite choker wouldn’t let him look either to the right or the left, is the Reverend Titus Cramcub, a learned man like yourself—reads Lord Bacon’s works and eats fat bacon for breakfast. He teaches the young idea ’ow to shoot, but prefers ’unting himself, and as soon as ’ounds ’ave shaken off the crowd, and settled to a run, he drops into the front rank, and goes as if he couldn’t ’elp himself. This is not a bad chap,” continued Mr. Jorrocks, nodding towards a square-built man in white moleskin breeches, an olive-coloured coat, and boots to match, who now turned a well-shaped grey upon the heath. “This is not a bad chap, Haimes the saddler, and I’ll tell ye a story ’bout him that may come into your palarvarment, if you like. His trade lies a good deal ’mong the saints, who wouldn’t ’prove of his ’unting, so he always christens his ’oss Business, and when any on ’em call when he’s out, his foreman says his master’s away on ‘business’—haw, haw, haw! he, he, he!”—a chuckle in which the great journalist joined. “This is a shabby screw,” said Mr. Jorrocks, pointing to a man in a rusty Bath-bricky scarlet, riding a badly-clipped ewenecked dun. “He’s ’unted all his life, they say, and never given a copper to ’ounds, always declarin’ that each season was to be his last. And, by the way, reminds me,” continued Mr. Jorrocks, turning short on his secretary, “’ow do the chaps buck up now that they’ve got wot they want in the way of an ’untsman?”

“Why, only very middling, I’m sorry to say, sir,” replied Mr. Fleeceall. “Somehow or other, I never can find a man with any money in his pocket. It’s always, ‘Oh, I’ll pay you next time we meet,’ or ‘I s’pose you’ll be out on Monday, when I will bring my subscription,’—but the happy day never comes.”

“Well, but that’s all nonsense,” ejaculated Mr. Jorrocks, “that’s all nonsense. Won’t do in a commercial country like this, at least only for landowners, and folks wot don’t understand ’ow money makes money. I’ll tell ye wot ye must do,” continued Mr. Jorrocks, “I’ll tell ye wot you must do,” repeated he, boiling up, “you must get a set of hinterest tables, and charge every man Jack on ’em five per cent. from the day the subscription becomes due.”

“Well, sir, what you think right,” replied Mr. Fleeceall.

“Well, I thinks that right,” retorted Mr. Jorrocks, adding: “if I was to get over the left wi’ Bullock and Ulker, d’ye s’pose they wouldn’t charge me five per cent., or may be more? They’d be werry unlike bankers i’ general if they didn’t. Why should I give tick wi’ the ’ounds?”

“Certainly not, sir; certainly not,” replied Fleeceall.

“The misfortin is, that every man thinks what he owes is of no importance. Now, there is Mr. Gillyflower coming up, as though the county was all his own,” pointing to a stylish young gentleman cantering along on a white cover hack, attired in a spic and span new scarlet coat, with patent leather fisherman boots coming half up his thighs, and puffing large clouds of smoke as he went; he is down for twenty guincas, and I carn’t get a half-penny of it.” Just then Mr. Gillyflower, spying the Master as he cantered along, pulled short up, and taking his cigar from his lips, accosted Mr. Jorrocks with—

“Holloa! good morning—how are ye, old boy?” Mr. Jorrocks deigned no answer.

“Here’s a fine hunting morning, Mr. Jorrocks,” he continued in a somewhat subdued tone, seeing our distinguished stranger.

“A werry bad ’untin’ mornin’, I should say,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, looking very irate, and unconsciously spurring his horse, who was still fidgeting about from the effects of the ginger.

“A good scenting one, at all events, I should think,” resumed the youngster, looking rather disconcerted.

“A werry bad scentin’ one, I should say,” rejoined Mr. Jorrocks, ramming the spurs into his horse, which the animal acknowledged by a sudden and desperate kick, which fairly shot our Master over its head.

Great was the consternation! Ego, Fleeceall, Gillyflower, Barnington, Dis arter six, Two upon Ten, and half-a-dozen more all leaped off their horses at once, while Gillyflower caught the hat and wig, and was loud in his hopes that Jorrocks wasn’t hurt.

“Hurt!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, his eyes sparkling with rage as he scrambled up and replaced his lost head-gear, “hurt, sir,” he repeated, looking as though he would eat him, “no, sir—not at all—rather the contrary!”

Our hero, however, having fallen both clean and soft, and having vented his anger upon his non-paying subscriber, things soon resumed their right course, while Pigg turned the accident to account by sending Ben about with the insurance tickets, singing out, “Take your tickets, gents! please take your tickets! goin’ into a hawful country—bottomless brooks! Old ’un got brandy in his bottle! Reg’lar cut-’em-down-and-hang-’em-up-to-dry country!”

This traffic was in turn interrupted by an extraordinary hyena-looking cap and scarlet-coated youth, with a cane-coloured beard and moustache, cantering furiously about on a long-tailed cream-coloured hack, dashing at every group of grooms and dark-coated horsemen, with the inquiry—“Have you seen my fellow? Have you seen my fellow?” At last he made for the pack, and hazarding the same enquiry of Pigg, that distinguished observer, after a careful though somewhat impertinent scrutiny, exclaimed,—

“N—o—r, ar’m d—d if iver ar did!” and Mr. Jorrocks, seeing the stranger arranging his whip as if for action, and knowing Pigg’s pugnacious disposition, immediately gave the signal for throwing off, and in an instant the glad pack were frolicking over the greensward of the heath, with the now contracting crowd pressing on after them.

South Grove, as our readers may remember, was the scene of Mr. Jorrocks’s former bag-fox exploit, and was well adapted for such experiments. It was a long wood of stately oaks, running parallel with the Appledove Road, for about a mile, the wood widening into something like twelve acres towards the middle. The other side was bounded by Bumpmead Heath, and the country around was of that undulating nature, that requires a man to ride close with hounds, or run a chance of losing them. From South Grove to Doitwich, the nearest cover, was four miles, as the crow flies, but a judicious winding of certain irregularities of surface would not only lengthen it into five or six miles, but also draw a bottomless brook twice into the run. Another great advantage it possessed for Mr. Jorrocks was, that sundry bridle roads all made for the next cover, and yet each by itself appearing to lead in a different direction, no one who did not know them would think of following him.

“But where’s Mr. Hego?” inquired he, looking round, expecting to find him at his elbow.

“Oh, he’s just trotted back to the Cock-and-Bottle,” replied Mr. Fleeceall, “he will be here directly.”

“Wot can he want at the Cock-and-Bottle?” inquired Mr. Jorrocks. “He doesn’t need any more jumpin’ powder than he has in his pocket, surely!”

“No,” replied Mr. Fleeceall, “but in looking into his silver sandwich-box just now, he found they had not put any mustard between the beef and bread, and he can’t eat it that way, he says. He will be back directly, I dare say—yonder he comes, indeed!”

“Then let’s be doin’, Pigg!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, as Ego neared them; adding, “now Binjimin, mind your eye! Marmeylad, you know!”

“Gently, hounds!” roared Pigg, as they approached the cover, and wanted to dash at the spot they took the scent up on the former occasion. “Have a care, all on ye!” added he, with a crack of his whip, as they reached the hedge.

“Yooi, over in then!” cheered Pigg, cap in hand, seeing they were bent upon breaking away. “Yooi, over in!” and every hound dashes into cover, with rather more music than strict etiquette would allow.

“Beautiful!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, fist in side, hoping Ego might not hear the riot. “Unkimmun heager, certainlie. Now, Mr. Hego, look out for the find. They’ll drag up to him with all this rind, or whatever you call the stuff,” knocking some of it off the bushes with his whip. “Have at him there, Manager, old man! Undeniable hound that,” turning to Ego, and pointing out a black and tan dog; “ven he begins to speak, you may look arter your silver sandwich box,—haw! haw! haw!”

“Hoic in! hoic in!” cheered Pigg along the ride, chuckling at the trick he was going to play. “Have at him, Crowner! good dog! Yooi! wind him, Lousey!” (Louisa) “good bitch! Have at him there, all on ye, and mind skeulmaister’s lookin’,” turning to Pomponius Ego with a grin, and saying, “Bain’t that industry?”

“Talli-ho! talli-ho! talli-ho!” screamed Ben, from the thickest part of the cover, as though he were getting murdered.

“Hoic, holloa! hoic holloa! hoic holloa!” exclaimed Ego, in the most orthodox style.

“A, how-way, canny man! how-way!” roared Pigg, gathering up his reins and ramming his spurs into his horse. “How-way, ar say! dinna stand blairin’ there! Whativer ye de, keep the tambourine a roulin’.”

Away tore Pigg to the holloa, through bogs, briars, bushes, and brambles, followed by Ego; and now the full music of the pack proclaims the finding of the drag. There is a tremendous scent, for though it has lain an hour it is strong enough to last a week. Round they go, full swing, every hound throwing his tongue, and making the old wood echo with their melody.

“They’ll kill him in cover,” observed Ego, taking out his watch. “Beckford’s wrong about scent never lying with a white frost. I’ll write an article to prove it.” A momentary check ensues—the drag has been lifted.

“Killed for a crown!” exclaimed Ego, with delight.

“Niver sick a thing;—never sick a thing!” retorts Pigg with a grin.

Now they are on him again, and the old oaks seem to shake with the melody.

“Is he a big ’un, Ben?” asked Pigg, as they meet at the junction of the rides.

“Uncommon!” exclaims Benjamin, gasping for breath.

“Aye, but we’ll bucket him,” responded Pigg, turning his quid in his mouth; adding, “ar’ll be the death of a shillin’, ony how! Sink it!” added he, “brandy and baccy ’ill gar a man live for iver!”

It’s now near leaving time, and Mr. Jorrocks and the field come up in long drawn file, the worthy M.F.H. all excitement and agitation.

“Oh!” exclaims he, dropping his ponderous whip down his leg with a heavy crash. “if we do but manish it, ’ow’appy I shall be! My vig, they’re away!”

Affable and Mercury top the fence out of cover, and the whole pack follow with desperate velocity. One twang of his horn is all Pigg gives, and then sticking it into his boot, he gets out of cover, hustles his horse, and settles himself into his seat. Away they go, up a long grass field by the side of the cover, scent breast high, the pack running almost mute, and the slow ones beginning to tail.

Pomponius Ego having got a good start, begins to spur, and passes Pigg in his stride, singing out,—

“When Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war!”

A stiff fence, with a strongly made-up gap, brings him up short, and turning to Pigg, he holloas out,—

“I’ll hold your horse if you’ll pull it down!”

“Ar niver gets off!” replies James, flying over the fence.

A gap at the end by the wood lets Ego through, and away he strides after Pigg, as hard as ever his horse can lay legs to the ground. Three or four more large enclosures are sped over without any change of position, the hounds going best pace all the time.

“Sink him, but he’s made it o’er strang!” exclaimed Pigg to himself, thinking of the drag; “ar wish they main’t beat us,” looking at the hounds running away from them.

A hat held against the clear blue sky proclaims the line over the hill.

“That’s the way, on him,” exclaims Pigg, pointing to the holloa.

“Curse the fellow!” replies Ego, “he’ll have headed him to a certainty,” inwardly rejoicing at the thoughts of a check.

On they go, at a pace truly awful. The drag has never been lifted till within a few yards of the holloa on the hill, and the rising ground tells on the heaving horses. Now they have a check, and on ploughed land, too. The hounds dash towards the fence beyond, and swing their cast without a whimper.

Pigg sits like a statue, giving his horse the wind, his eagle eye fixed upon the pack. They throw up; and now he takes out his horn, gives one blast, and in an instant the pack are with him.

“I’ll lay my life he’s headed back!” exclaims Ego. “That confounded fool on the hill did all the mischief. Do for once try back, as Beckford says.”

“Forroard yonder, to the left of the harrow,” whispers a confidant to James Pigg, “then along the bottom of the next grass field, and straight over Ulverstone Pasture and Bysplit, to the back of the red house yonder.”

“That can never be the line!” exclaims Ego, wiping the perspiration from his brow. “None but a born idiot would make such a cast—in the very teeth of the wind, too!”

“How-way, canny man! How-way!” exclaims Pigg, waving his arm and pointing to Priestess, hitting off the scent; “how-way, ar say; what! hast getten ne mair ink i’ pen!”

Away they go, at best pace as before, but a lane at the bottom of a turnip-field, a mile or two rarther on, again brings them up.

This check joins heads and tails. Mr. Jorrocks, who has come pounding along, in a state of desperate perspiring excitement, all eyes, ears, and fears, through his pet line of gates, jumps with his man at the point in the lane where the drag has crossed. Both are in such a stew, that Jorrocks can only articulate, “Headies! ’ow they go!” and Pigg, all anxiety to get his hounds across before the tail comes up, exclaims, “Had bye, ard man! Sink! ar’ll be dingin on ye down!” adding, “ye’ve ne carle to ride for raputation!” The tobacco-juice streams down either side of his chin, and his lank hair floats on the breeze as, bare-headed, he caps the hounds over into the field. They are now upon grass again. The scent lies parallel with the lane, and Mr. Jorrocks, whose horse and whose self are nearly pumped out, keeps on the hard road, followed by a heterogeneous tail of mud-stained, elbowing horsemen. The aspirants for fame stick to the hounds, and follow them into every field, Cramcub, who cast up as the hounds broke cover, leading.

Nothing can be finer than the line! Large grazing grounds, some forty, none less than twenty acres, are sped over, and twice Dribbleford Brook comes in the way for those whose ambition is waterproof. What a scene!—what blobbings in and scramblings out! what leavings of hind legs and divings for whips, sticks, and cigar cases!

Jorrocks, who is well laid in on the road for a view, screeches and halloas them on. “Now, Sugar! now Slates! now Dis arter six!” Then up came Whezey, junior, looking very like “enough.” “Hover ye go!” roars our Master, cracking his ponderous whip. “Oh, Mr. Jorrocks! (puff) I must enter a (pant) nolle prosequi,” gasps the exhausted lawyer. “Enter it then,” exclaims our Master, delighted at the symptoms of distress, and saying to himself, “If this don’t ’stonish old Hego, there arn’t no halligators! Come hup, you hugly beast,” he adds to his horse, again spurring and kicking him into a canter.

The hounds bend again to the right, the stain of cattle rather slackens their pace, and some heavy sticky fallows at length bring their noses to the ground. “’Eavens be praised!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, easing his horse, and eyeing them topping the fence between the pasture and arable land: “we may now have a little breathin’ time, and see if they can ’unt as well as run. Oh, the beauties, ’ow they spread! one, two, three, and now all together—oh! beautiful! beautiful! He’s up the furrow. Where’s Hego?”

And echo answered, “Where?”

Mr. Jorrocks is right. The mock “thief o’ the world” has gone up the wet furrow, to the injury of the firm of Herring and Aniseed, who carry on business very languidly. Old Priestess’s unerring nose alone keeps the pack on the line. Pigg, however, is at hand, with a good idea of the run of his fox, and now carries away a rood of fence as he crashes into the field to his hounds. His horse’s neck begins to stiffen, and there have been one or two ominous throat-rattles, but Pigg hustles him along, and casts his hounds forward to Sywell Wood. What a crash! The feeble whimper that barely owned the scent is changed into a full and melodious chorus; every hound throws his tongue, and echo answers them a hundred-fold! There’s a rare scent!

The cover being open at the bottom, the hounds are quickly through, and Pigg, catching Benjamin at the far end, pulls him off his horse, and makes a fresh start on the boy’s.

Grass again greets the pack. The red-topped house is neared, and the scent improves. The hounds run stout, though, perhaps, not carrying quite so good a head as might have been desirable, had Ego been near. On they go; and now a sudden check ensues at the corner of the stackyard. The music that lately rent the air is lulled; the hounds having swung a rocket-like cast, stand staring with their heads in the air.

“Who-hoop, gone to ground!” exclaims some one in the rear, anxious for a termination of the enjoyment.

“Not a bit of it,” replies Mr. Jorrocks, knowing better. “’Old ’ard!” roars he to the forward roadsters, who are now getting among the hounds. “You ’air-dresser on the chestnut ’oss!” holloaing to a gentleman with very big ginger whiskers; “Pray ’old ’ard!”

“Hair-dresser!” exclaims the gentleman, in a fury, turning short round; “I’m an officer in the ninety-first regiment!”

“Then you hossifer in the ninety-fust regiment, wot looks like an ’air-dresser, ’old ’ard,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, trotting on, adding most unconcernedly, “Cast ’em forrard, Pigg! Cast ’em forrard! or make a patent all round my hatter.”

On goes Pigg, making good the line the warmint should have gone. Not a hound speaks!—all mute as death.

“Werry rum, Pigg,” said Mr. Jorrocks, winking significantly to his huntsman, as the latter trotted round with his hounds; “werry rum—for once cast back—clear the way there, gen’lemen, if you please, clear the way, who knows but you are right upon the line o’ scent!” cried Mr. Jorrocks to the horsemen who were clustering about, thinking of anything but what they ought.

That would not do.

“Oh, dear! oh, dear! that’s bad,” muttered Mr. Jorrocks to James Pigg; “where the deuce can the fool ha’ gone?”

We may here state that Giles Gosling, the farmer, having seen Pigg and his comrade setting out the line, and not exactly relishing their progress over his wheat a little farther on, had watched Maltby’s coming, and seizing him, drag and all, had stowed him away in his cellar.

“Ar mun just try to cross the line on him,” observed Pigg, pulling his horn out of his boot, and giving it a twang; “put hunds forrard ’ard man,” said he to his master, trotting on, and blowing as he went.

“Who ever saw such a cast?” exclaimed Ego, who had now got draggled up; “your huntsman must be mad, Mr. Jorrocks!”

“I’ll lay a guinea ’at to a ’alf-crown wide-awake he recovers his fox for all that,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, with a good deal more confidence than he felt.

“If he does I’ll eat him!” rejoined Pomponius Ego, with an air of importance.

This prediction, coming from so high an authority, combined with the state of the steam, had the effect of stopping the majority of a pretty well exhausted field, who all clustered round Ego to relate their daring leaps, in hopes of monthly immortality. “I leapt Dribbleford Brook.” “I charged the ox-fence on the far side.” “I never left the hounds.” “I did this—I did that!” Ambitious men!

With fear and anxiety on their faces, Pigg and his master bumped on in hopes of hitting off the scent. Mr. Jorrocks was in a desperate stew.

“Oh, Pigg!” exclaimed he, as they got out of hearing, “I’d give the world to finish wi’ blood. If you could but manish to kill him ’ow gratefully obleged I should be to you and your heirs for ever!” You shall drink brandy out of a pint-pot for breakfast, dinner, and supper.”

“Ye said a quart!” observed the man of the north, eyeing his hounds.

Jorrocks.—“Did I? I’ll be as good as my word.”

Pigg.—“Ords wuns, ard man, fetch hunds on; does think, thou ard gouk, ar can hit him off o’ mysel’?” looking back at the hounds all straggling behind Mr. Jorrocks’s horse.

Mr. Jorrocks pockets the rebuke, and bestirs himself to get the hounds on to his huntsman; Pigg trots on, letting them feel for the scent as they go.

Mr. Jorrocks bumps on, vowing all sorts of vows to Diana, if she will only ’ave the kindness to assist him that once. He would give her a hat and feather! He would give her a swan’s-down muff and tippet! Nay, he would stand a whole rig-out at Swan and Hedgar’s; pettikits, bustle, and all!

Pigg’s eagle eye lights up, as a hat is waved near the windmill on the rising ground.

“Yonder he is!” exclaims James, grinning with delight.

“Vere?” inquires Mr. Jorrocks, all eyes, like Gabriel Junks’s tail.

Pigg spurs his horse, and trots on to the holloa.

It is the man, who has been waiting in anxious expectation, and has just shook the fox.

After staring about, Reynard proceeds from a crawl to a trot, and then sets his head for the vale, from which the hounds have just come.

Pigg views him stealing past a plantation end, and lays his hounds quietly on; they quickly take up the scent.

A stranger in the land, the fox goes stoutly down wind, with the hounds too near to give him much chance for his life. As if anxious for the promotion of the sport, he makes for the vale, and the pack come swinging down the hill in the view of the field planted below. Fresh ardour is caught at the sight! Those who ridiculed the cast are now loudest in its praise. They reach the bottom, and fox and hounds are in the same field. Now they view him! How they strain! It’s a beautiful sight. Old Priestess is tailed off, and Rummager falls into the rear. Ah, age! age! Now Vanquisher turns him, and races with Dexterous for the seize! Who-hoop! Fox and hounds roll over together!

Now Pigg crushes through the Bullfinch at the far end, followed by Mr. Jorrocks, who doesn’t even ask “what there ’s on t’other side?” Master and man race for the brush, but Pigg throws himself from his horse, and has the fox high in air just as the field come up in the opposite direction. What delight is in every countenance! There is Pigg holding the fox above his head, grinning and gaping, with his cap on one side, his white neckcloth ends flying out, and a coat-lap torn to ribands. Mr. Jorrocks gets off his horse, and throwing his hat in air, catches it again, and then kicks the crown out, while his heaving horse stretches and shakes himself after his unwonted exertion. Lather! lather! lots of lather! Even dribbling Ben catches the infection, and whoops and holloas at the top of his voice.

Up comes Ego, and Mr. Jorrocks, with brush in one hand and crownless hat in the other, greets him on one leg, waving the proud trophy about, and hurrahing at the top of his voice, “Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Allow me, Mr. Pomponius Hego,” says he, “to present you with the brush of the werry gamest old thief o’ the world whatever was seen. Time, one hour and twenty minutes, with only one check—distance. wot you please to call it. Am sorry you weren’t hup to see the darlin’s run into the warmint! Did it in style!

“Never were sich a pack as mine; best ’ounds in England!—best ’ounds in Europe!—best ’ounds in Europe, Hasia, Hafrica, or ’Merica!” So saying, Mr. Jorrocks resuming his equilibrium, presented Ego with the brush, who received it with laudable condescension.

“Now, vot will you do?” inquired Mr. Jorrocks; “eat your sandwiches and find another fox, or eat your sandwiches and cut away ’ome?”

“Why, for my part, I should like to try again,” replied Ego; “but I fear your horse’s condition is hardly equal to another burst; added to which, there’s a frost in the air that will harden the ground, and, perhaps, damage your hounds’ feet. I think, perhaps, we had better leave well alone.”

“So be it,” replied Mr. Jorrocks. “Here, then, you chap with the bandy legs!” calling to a knock-kneed lad on the other side of the ring, “fatch me my ’at-crown; the cold strikes through my cocoanut.” Having got it, Mr. Jorrocks stuck the crown in in the best way he could, and, remounting his horse, returned to Handley Cross in state, and great exultation.

In the evening he entertained Mr. Ego to a sumptuous banquet, the particulars of which are recorded by him in the following chapter.

¹All gammon! They were some of Bugginson’s lot.

²Nothing of the sort; we wish they were.—Author.