CHAPTER XVI

THE HAUNCH OF VENISON

AMONG the gradual decline of good old English customs—asking to wine—calling to see instead of to card—keeping birth-days—sending wedding-cake, and so on, we know of none more regrettable than the omission of the old annual haunch of venison. The others may be looked upon as the

but there is a fine substantial reality about the haunch that admits of no mistake. You either get a haunch of venison or you don’t; if you do, it promotes conviviality, just as a pack of fox-hounds promotes sport, and you look backward and forward to it as a sort of mile-stone on the highway of pleasure. People remember how jolly they all were at Heartycourt Park, and look forward to being so again when the next haunch comes. Guests will respond to a haunch who will sneer at a “saddle,” though the saddle may be the better eating of the two.

Among the keepers up of the good old venison-sending custom was His Grace the Duke of Tergiversation, whose better acquaintance the reader will presently make, as the old schoolmaster used to say when he got a new boy. The Duke had a noble park—fourteen hundred acres of varied grasses—and made a great annual distribution of its produce. For this purpose His Grace’s keeper, Mr. Bagwell, kept a regular table of precedence among men, so that the people—those who gave Bag the proper tip at least—could calculate pretty accurately when the accustomed haunch would come. This enabled them to make their preparations accordingly, see who they owed a dinner to, who was absent that usually came, and consider what new guest should fill the vacant place.

Among the earliest recipients of the Ducal haunch, we need scarcely say, was His Grace’s banker, Mr. Goldspink; for though no one really wanted or coveted it less, yet, for reasons already indicated, it was deemed good policy to propitiate him. Accordingly one day as our friend was sitting in his little back den of a sweating-room at the bank, now conning his interest-tables, calculating money by the clock, now peeping through a hole he had scratched off the white paint in the lower part of the window, speculating on the means of the various passers-by, those he would trust—those he would not—he saw Mr. Bagwell’s green-and-gold deputy, Mr. Ranger, ride into the market-place on the familiar white pony, with something sticking out of the distended panniers, that immediately struck our banker as destined for him. “Sivin and four’s elivin and sivin’s eighteen, and nine’s twenty-sivin—do believe that’s haunch of venison a comin’ for me—and fifteen’s forty-two—if it is there’ll be a deuce of an overdraw next—and sivin’s forty-nine—was just going to write to Mr. Acreage to draw his ’tention to His Grace’s ’count—and forty-four is ninety-three—it’s comin’ here, however.” So saying, Mr. Goldspink tinkled his little hand-bell, and told Mr. Scorer, the cashier, to take what was coming, but by no manner of means to let the bearer know he was in.

So he sat securely in his little retreat, and heard the bump of delivery on the counter and the loitering heels of the purveyor waiting to know if there was anything to go back.

Having had the satisfaction of seeing him off, he then had the haunch brought into his room, where he held an inquest upon it as it lay on his table. There it was, all right and proper, the orthodox foot attached to show it wasn’t donkey, and a clean parchment label, with his own name regularly esquired, as we all are now-a-days, and the Duke of Tergiversation’s compliments, with the day on which the buck was killed, so that he mightn’t keep it till it was able to walk back of itself. He then took the haunch up by the shank, and found it was heavy, and poked his finger into the fat and approved of that too. “Sivin and four’s elivin, and sixteen’s twenty-sivin,” continued he, drawing back to survey it; “don’t know what to do with it now that I’ve got it,” dryshaving his double chin with his hand as he spoke; “and fifty-four is eighty-one—would rather he’d paid summut on account—and sivin is eighty-eight—got nobody that I want to give a dinner to—and ninety-nine is a hundred and eighty-sivin—no use makin’ a party on purpose—and fourteen is two hundred and one—better sell it or give it away than do that.”

When he got the haunch home there was another discussion between Mrs. Goldspink and himself as to what should be done with it, both opposing a party on purpose to eat it on account of the expense. “Sivin and four’s elivin, and four’s fifteen—would cost four or fi’ pun, at least—and sivin is twenty-two—what with sweet sauce, puffs, puddins, wine, and what not—and fourteen is thirty-six—besides all our best customers are away—and sivin is forty-three—no use asking a set of second-raters to come—who might think it was a hint they might have ’commodation—and five is forty-eight—better give it away nor that.” In this view Mrs. Goldspink agreed, and the weather being intensely hot, and their larder none of the coolest, it became a matter of consideration who to pawn it off upon quickly. The Gaythorns of Foxberry Green would be the best people, but then they were in Scotland; and the Wedderburns of Harbinger House always got their haunch about the same time. The Bolters, the Ashcrofts, the Skirvings, the Holleydales, and the Sewels were severally canvassed, but some exception or other taken to each, and the discussion about came to a period or full stop.

“There’s Mrs. McDermott,” at length suggested our hero No. 1, whose heart hankered after the fair, more especially now when he meditated a trip to Roseberry Rocks races.

“To be sure!” exclaimed Mrs. Goldspink, “the very people. Be a nice present for them;” and forthwith she sent the knock-kneed half errand half footboy off for a basket, into which the Ducal haunch was speedily packed and despatched by that night’s mail-train. And they thought they had managed matters very cleverly, and saved themselves an infinity of trouble and expense.