CHAPTER LXIII
MR. JORROCKS’S DRAFT
LTHOUGH we have hitherto refrained from mentioning it, such mishaps procuring little sympathy, Mr. Jorrocks’s hounds were not quite so steady as they might be, and sundry sheep had been laid to their charge during the season, with more or less appearance of probability. To be sure, most of these accusations Mr. Jorrocks had combated successfully, vowing that it was “downrightly ridicklous to charge his ’ounds wi’ nothin’ o’ the sort; that they wouldn’t look at ship, let alone touch ’em;” an assertion that Pigg always backed by declaring his readiness to fight anybody who doubted it. As, luckily, the hounds had never been caught, by the owners of the sheep at least, flagrante delicto, with the mutton in their mouths, our Master escaped the inconvenient responsibility of paying for them.
On the memorable “old customer” morning, however, as Mr. Jorrocks was making all sail round the road by the green fields of Primrose Side Hill, hitting and holding, and grinning and scolding as usual, what should he see but his skirting friends, Limner and Sultan—some of the Bugginson lot—nip up a young lamb and pass on as if nothing particular had happened, and Mr. Jorrocks’s aphorism being, as he told Ego, “’andsome is wot ’andsome does,” he determined not to keep such dainty customers, who wanted to have lamb before their master. Lightning and Bluebell, too, presently deviated after a hare, not an unusual occurrence with either of them, Lightning having once led off the pack at a very critical cold-scenting moment of the chase, when it required the united experience of master and man to keep the pack on the line of the fox over Sandyfield Moor.
These and similar mishaps set Mr. Jorrocks a-thinking, after the enthusiasm of the victory was over, whether there weren’t others that he would be as well without, and considering that there were many mere “show partners,” as he called them, hounds that did little or nothing in the way either of finding or trouncing a fox, and that meal was werry dear and flesh scarce, he determined to rid himself of some of the sleeping partners of the chase.
Ranter was a resolute, headstrong brute, all very well on a good scenting day, but a hound that a man might holloa and roar at till he was hoarse, if there was an unjumpable wall or impossible ravine between them. He used to treat Ben’s “Ranter! Ranter! Ranter!” with the most marked contempt.
Resolute, a very handsome, rich-coloured hound, with as good legs, loins, depth of chest, and general points as eye could desire, ran mute, and would go away at score with a scent, leaving the pack to hunt him and the fox as best they could. Mr. Jorrocks, who was well up to his tricks, had often vowed “he’d ’ang ’im when he got ’ome,” but had always relented when he came to see ’ow ’andsome he looked on the flags, and felt his coaxing winning ways. Resolute, indeed, was Jorrocks’s model hound. “Take his ’ead atween your knees,” he used to say to judges, or would-be judges, who came to while away an hour in the kennel; “take his ’ead atween your knees, and see the width of his ribs be’ind the shoulders. Now stand sideways,” he would exclaim, “and look at his legs—see ’ow straight they are! straight as harrows!” Indeed, Resolute had but one fault, though that was undoubtedly a great one—running mute. Jorrocks had consulted Pigg about splitting Resolute’s tongue with a sixpence, to try to make him musical, just as boys try to make their magpies talk by a similar expedient.
Clamorous was a dweller, and insisted upon throwing his tongue and hunting every yard of the line, though his comrades might be fields before him with the scent. He was a crooked-legged, flat-sided, loose-loined beggar, that Jorrocks had made sundry ineffectual attempts to get rid of by riding over. Then Limner and Sultan had rather corrupted the good manners of some others; a skirting hound, like a skirting rider, being always sure to have a good many followers; and altogether Jorrocks decided that there were five or six couple he would be just as well shot of.
These, of course, came to Mr. Pigg, who received them under the injunction that he was to get rid of them as soon as possible, and James “kennin’ a chap,” as he said, “whe had jist sich another lot,” the two laid their heads together, and advertised them in the sporting papers as a very superior lot of hounds, parted with solely on account of the owner reducing his establishment, and well worthy the attention of anyone wanting hounds, as they were not drafts, but hounds that had been regularly hunted together, and were some of the best blood in England.
Now it so happened that young Mr. Barege, son of the late head of the firm Barege, Tissue, and Caps, whom some of our fair readers will perhaps remember occupying the beautiful plate-glassed premises, Nos. 21, 22, and 23, Threadneedle Street; either fired with noble emulation of Mr. Jorrocks, or of his own proper accord, thinking perhaps to advance himself in society, had taken the Gambado country, vacant by the retirement of Mr. Slack, and, with all the generous ignorance of a beginner, as soon as ever he read the advertisement, he thought it was the very thing for him; so filling his porte-monnaie full of five-pound notes, he railed down to Handley Cross, in a desperate stew lest anyone should be there before him. Arrived at his destination, he made straight for the kennel, expecting to find at least half-a-dozen M.F.H.’s wrangling for the lot.
Mr. Pigg, having taken his usual drain, his custom always of an afternoon, was about half-seas over when his mincing, dandified, clean-stepping customer came; and thinking it was just one of the idle, watering-place set, come to do the knowing among the hounds, he was not disposed to give himself much trouble; a tack that he very soon abandoned when Mr. Barege, with a flourish of his scented cambric ’kerchief, announced himself as a master of fox-hounds come to look at Pigg’s draft. James was then all zeal and activity, all praise of the pack and the draft in particular, which, he said, were just as good as any they’d kept; and really if he’d been choosin’, he thought he’d have prefar’d many of these to some they’d put back; but of course their and maister was the best judge, and had a reet to please hissel, and it was not for him to find fault—certainly not—he was nabbut a sarvent, and had te de what he was tell’d, and a man what didn’t de what he was tell’d wasn’t a sarvent, and so on: all very sound doctrine, though not exactly what our friend acted up to.
Mr. Barege took exception to one or two of the hounds as being rather short in the neck and throaty, but Pigg immediately overruled it, by declaring that they were of “undeniable blood, and first-rate line hunters, huntin’ and drivin’ a scent without dwellin’ on it,” though Pigg knew no more about what they could do than they knew what Pigg could do, these being some of “t’other chap’s” lot.
In short, Pigg was too many for the mercer, who not wishing to show his ignorance, began to talk about price. Pigg then took a comprehensive survey of him, noted his hairy lip, his pudding face, and vacant eye, inwardly resolving that a man who would wear such a flowing tie and funny boots must have a good deal of the goose in him.
“Why, noo, sor,” replied Pigg, scratching his head and turning his quid, with a hitch of his braceless breeches, “Why, noo, sor, ar doesn’t want to be hard ’pon ye ’bout them—not ar, indeed, only ye see, sor, ye see,” rubbing his nose across the back of his hand, “this isn’t like a young draft, that may be good for summut, or good for nout, just as things chance, nor yet is it like an ’ard draft, that may have arl sorts o’ ’fenders, sheep-worriers, skirters, babblers, dwellers, and what not ’mang it, but this is like hafe a pack o’ good h’unds as it were, that you may tak’ into ony country with the certainty o’ sport, and of their dein’ ye credit; in fact, gin ar had me reets ar’d gan down to the Morpeth country wi’ them mysel’, only ye see, sor,” continued he, boiling up as he spoke, “only ye see, sor, mar foreelder John, John Pigg ye see, willed arl wor brass to the ’Formory, ye see, and left me wi’ fairly nout—gin ye gan to the ’Formory, ye’ll see it arl clagged up i’ great gou’d letters ’gin the warll,” Pigg flogging away at the kennel wall with his whip till he drove all his draft away.
Mr. Barege, to whom both the sporting and the grievance part of the foregoing was Greek, now essayed to edge a word in sideways.
“Well,” said he, twirling his cane-coloured moustache, and throwing back his little conceited coat—as he stood in consequential attitude—far different to the way his father used to stand behind the counter, showing his ribbons—and “wot’s the next article, mam?”-ing the ladies. “Well,” said he, “say the word—How much?”
“Why, ar’l tell ye i’ two words,” replied Pigg, now rubbing his nose the reverse way, on the back of his hand, “arl tell ye i’ twe words—ar doesn’t want nothin’ but what’s reet and fair—nothin’ but what’s reet and fair —ar’s as honest a man as iver was shaved—though ar hasn’t ’zactly getten me Sunday claes on”—Pigg looking down at his tattered purple coat-laps, drab breeches, and continuations—“and gin ye fancy these h’unds, ye shall hev them at a varry fair, moderate figure, for when wor ard maister’s made up his mind te part wi’ a thing, he doesn’t like te see it ’bout the place, and ar’s warned ye, if he was to come down now, he’d be readin’ the riot act, for he’s a rum un when he’s raised, and ar might ha’ selled them to ard Mr. Dribbler, o’ the Daddyfield hunt, only he’s sic a fond ard chap—parfect lunattic ar may say—that ar said ar’d sooner knock ’em on the head than he should hev them, and so ye see they’re here now; and though ar say it, who shouldn’t, any gen’l’man, either settin’ oop a pack, or addin’ to one, couldn’t be better suited, for a more valuable lot were never sorted. Ar wadn’t tell ye a lee ’bout them,” continued he, now rubbing his nose upwards. “Ar wadn’t tell ye a lee ’bout them, ar assure you, for wor ’ard maister’s a most particklar man ’bout the truth— leers and drunkards bein’ things he can’t abeer, and if iver he catches a man either drunk or tellin’ a lee, he off’s wi’ ’im at yence, and if arl gen’l’men would de the like, and give true and proper c’aracters of sarvents, they’d be far better sarved, and we shouldn’t hev a lot of nasty, idle, drunken dogs fillin’ the places o’ good men, and ye may ’pend upon it, if ar was to tell ye out but the ’zact truth, and wor ’ard maister were to ken, he’d gi me the sack, se it’s ne use me sayin’ nothin’ but wot’s the real truth, and no mistake—”
“Well, well,” interrupted Mr. Barege, who was too well up in the puffing art not to see through it, “well, well, that ’ill do, that ’ill do—I dessay the hounds are good—Mr. Jorrocks, I know, is a pretty good judge; and you say he’s only parting with them because he’s reducing his establishment—what I want to know is the price—the neat unadorned price, without any superfluous flourish or badinage.” Mr. Barege taking a diminutive gold watch out of his flashy waistcoat pocket, and holding it as if to time Pigg.
The admission that Jorrocks was a good judge encouraged Pigg, and knowing that a purchaser would have no opportunity of trying the hounds before autumn, he determined to, what he calls, “lay it on.”
“Well then,” said Pigg, nerving himself for the announcement, “well then,” repeated he, “ye mun just gi’ me five guineas a coople for them.”
“Five guineas a couple,” mused Mr. Barege, knitting his brows, though in reality he was pleased, it being less than he expected. “Five guineas a couple—ten couple at five guineas a couple—five times ten is fifty, and fifty shillings is two pun’ ten—fifty-two pun’ ten.”
“Give you forty,” resumed he, turning short upon Pigg.
“Couldn’t tak’ it,” replied Pigg, with a shake of his head, “couldn’t tak’ it. They’re worth just as much again, gin the season were on. Ar’d lay ony money,” continued Pigg, “ar’d gan down to Tilton Wood wi’ nabbut them ten couple and kill the ’ard Cottesmore1 customer for them.”
And Barege, to Pigg’s astonishment, produced his beautiful green and gold porte-monnaie, and told out ten clean, crisp, raspberry-tart-marked five-pound notes, and handed them over in exchange for this very valuable lot of hounds, combining amongst them about every vice and deficiency that hounds are capable of. Pigg at first was so struck at the possession of such wealth, that he kept fumbling and turning the notes about in a stupefied sort of way—neither counting them nor putting them right for counting, quite different to the way old Barege use to deal with his darlings when he sold an Indian shawl, or any expensive article of raiment to the ladies; and our embryo master of hounds, thinking James was going to haggle for the shillings, demanded in a peremptory tone, if it was a deal?
“Cartainly, sir, cartainly,” replied Pigg, with another hitch of his braceless breeches, “Cartainly, sir, cartainly, but we mun hev a glass tegither oot on’t, ar’s warned.”
This Mr. Barege declined, intimating that he was not addicted to glasses, whereupon Pigg tendered him his hand, saying, “Giv us a wag o’ yeer nief then, giv us a wag o’ yeer nief,” at which Barege seemed equally disgusted.
And Pigg was so petrified at the acquisition of such unexpected wealth, that he did not know what he was about, and Mr. Barege, after thrice telling him how he wanted the hounds sent, was obliged to write it down, and having done so, he left Pigg to decypher his instructions at his leisure.
When Pigg came to his senses, he went straight to the Salmon Hotel, and astonished Sherry by paying off his score, after which he remitted the balance of his share of the plunder to his coosin Deavilboger, in the north, to invest in the Jarrow docks, in hopes that it might lay the foundation of a fund for the future redemption of the “ould ancient Pigg property.”
And when Pigg saw the hounds depart in charge of Barege’s feeder, he chuckled and laughed outright, saying to himself, “Sink, but ar’d be the death of a guinea to see them divils hunt.”
