CHAPTER LXXXIII

BRANFORTH BRIDGE

OOTS and breeches again! What boys for boots and breeches! Here is Mr. Jovey Jessop all red and yellow, all hurry and confusion, as keen as if he had never seen a fox or a hound in his life. Here is the old hot and heavy Jug, too, red up to the crown; and here, too, is Mr. Bunting, very smart and orthodox, moving leisurely about as an easy going exquisite ought to do. It will not be a hunt that will put Mr. Bunting out of his way.

“Horse on?” (munch, slunch, munch), asks Mr. Jessop with his nose well down to the porridge plate.

“Ride him myself,” grunts the Jug, trudging away to the well supplied plate-warmer at the fire for some kidneys.

“Take Mr. (slunch, munch) Bunting then with me,” observes Mr. Jessop, who is going on wheels.

“Thank you,” replies our hero, now falling to with his breakfast to be ready in time.

Munch, crunch, sip, sop, sup, was then the order of the day varied by occasional exclamations of tea! toast! egg! or whatever the party wanted, a footman hovering round the breakfast-table to supply all rising demands on the instant.

Mr. Jessop was done first—“Ten minutes!” exclaimed he, rising and looking at his watch as he wiped his mouth, and threw his napkin away; “Ten minutes if you please,” repeated he, hurrying out of the room.

“Sharp’s the (munch, crunch) word here,” observed the Jug, labouring away at the beef-steak and fried potatoes.

“So it seems,” replied Mr. Bunting, putting on a little more steam.

“Never knew (crunch) Jessop late in my (munch) life,” observed the Jug, filling his useful mouth full of muffin.

“By the (munch, crunch) way, you’ll not forget my (crunch, munch), boot jack,” observed he, looking up at Mr. Bunting.

“Oh no, I’ve laid it on the toilette table to be ready to bring down.”

“Thank ye,” replied the Jug, adding, “I nearly lost it one day by lending it to a friend, whose groom would insist that it belonged to his master’s dressing-case, and was walking away with it under his arm when I met him.”

“Indeed,” replied Mr. Bunting, thinking it would have been no great matter if he had lost it.

“Rather a neat (munch crunch) article,” observed the Jug between mouthfuls.

“Well, yes, no, middling,” replied Mr. Bunting from out of his tea cup—“the fact is,” said he, setting the empty vessel down, “I don’t know, but it would be better without the fold—the joint you know.”

“Why, so?” asked the Jug.

“The fact is, I have rather a fleshy frog, and it nipped me as I stood upon it.”

“Ah, well it bit me that way too once,” replied the Jug; “but that was because I hadn’t my (crunch) slipper on—should put your (munch) slipper on when you draw off your (crunch) boot.”

The clank of a spur followed by the crack of a whip now sounded in the entrance-hall, and just at the moment a quick stepping bay whisked round with the dog-cart, and pulled up at the front door.

“Now then! time’s up!” cried Mr. Jessop; and in rushed a footman to announce that “master was ready.”

“Well, then, adieu for the present,” said Mr. Bunting to the Jug, as he rose to obey the summons, and investing himself in a roomy Napoleon gray overcoat, he put on his hunting-cap, and was presently by his host’s side in the vehicle. The groom leaving hold of the horse’s head, at a “twit” from our master, after a half-pretence of a rear, the gallant bay shouldered the collar, and started away at the rate of ten miles an hour. Knowing that he would cool down of his own accord, Mr. Jessop just let him go, and after bowling through the Park, they shot past the dilapidated lodges, and got upon the newly-metalled Fillingdale road. The velocity gradually subsided, and quartering, and easing, and picking the way became the order of the day. So they proceeded, jolting and laughing, overtaking horsemen presenting various indications of the chase, one with spurs to his leather-leggings, another with a fine Malacca cane whip-stick in his hand, a third with an entire whip; then a man in mufti all but a hunting-cap, and presently the knowing, well-dressed grooms, jogging on by ones, by twos, and by threes. All touched or took off their hats to our master as he passed.

The bridge stands obliquely over the broad impetuous Wheetlade, presenting a pleasing feature from whichever end it is approached. Belonging to two counties, the surveyors of each exercise their ingenuity in making their respective ends as different as possible, the arches of one being of thirty, the other of fifty feet chord; while the wall and parapet of one is of coped rubble, and the other has an iron-railing fixed upon an indifferent ashlar one, to prevent drunken farmers and others shooting over the acute angle into the brawling river below. The bridge itself is on a liberal incline; and of course there is a toll-bar at the low end, presenting a substantial barrier to runaway horses, and causing many an objurgation from travellers on wheels, who expect to enjoy the benefit of the descent. Nothing annoys people so much as having to pull up to pay when they are cheating their horses into a belief that they have got nothing behind them.

Branforth bridge was not a very favourite meet for foxhunters, the general report of a day’s sport from thence being, “We ran up the banks and down the banks;” but as the foxes liked the banks it was necessary to disturb them occasionally and drive them out into more popular quarters. Still it was a favourite place for the rising generation, and just at the season of the year when the schools had returned their valuable charges to their homes, it was sure, on a fine day like the present, to draw a considerable number.

Although Mr. Jovey Jessop did not, as we said before, affect lady-foxhunters, he was kind and encouraging to boys, who, besides placing under the particular care of his Jug, he always charged his servants to keep an eye upon, and to ride by such safe ways as would show them the most of a run. So he kept up his popularity with the Mammas who brought their smiling-faced boys on their ponies and in their pretty basket-carriages and confided them to his care, in the full confidence of getting them safe back again.

“Here we are now!” exclaimed Mr. Jovey Jessop, as the brow of Highford Hill brought them full above the circling river, with its well-wooded banks, marking its meandering course through the country. “Here we are!” repeated he, taking out his watch, and showing Mr. Bunting that it was seven minutes within time.

Two or three red coats, and two or three black coats, dotted the line, the wearers working their horses in the careful sort of way that denotes a ride on, but there was little to indicate a popular gathering.

“Well, but where are the hounds?” asked Mr. Bunting, thinking there was a great falling off in the field.

“The hounds are in the quarry,” replied Mr. Jessop, and easing out his horse, he drove rapidly down the hill; but, instead of crossing the bridge, he turned short to the right, and trotting up a narrow lane, entered a spacious whinstone quarry, that looked as if it could supply all the world with stone. Ow, wow, wow, went the joyful hounds, up went the hats and caps, smiles and greetings burst from all quarters. The large sheltered area of the quarry was alive with hounds, and horses, and carriages, and ponies—black, white, dun, roan, pie-bald, skew-bald—all the captivating colours, in fact. There was Mrs. Lob, with her large lustrous dark eyes fixed on her son, now sitting sideways on his skew-bald, whom she commends to the “very great care” of Mr. Jessop, begging that he will not let him ride over any five-barred gates, or dangerous places; there is Mrs. Honeybrook, sitting in her clothes-basket in the midst of her bevy of beauties equally energetic with regard to Albert Arthur, while Mrs. Eglantine begs that Mr. Jessop will see to sweet William, who is out with the hounds for the first time in his life. To all of whose injunctions, and to those of several others, Mr. Jessop replies that he will make a point of attending, and will place the boys under the care of Mr. Boyston as soon as ever he comes up. And scarcely are the words out of his mouth ere our red-hot friend is borne into the midst of the assemblage by the boring, teeth-grinding Billy Rough’un; and, the usual interchange of civilities or incivilities, such as “Well, Tom!” “Well, Jug!” “Well, old Quart Pot! how goes it?” and so on, over, Mr. Jessop, who has now mounted his horse, and sits in the midst of his hounds, exclaims, “I say, Boyston! here are three hundred and fifty thousand pounds worth of jewels (looking round on the smiling faces as he spoke) committed to your care; now will Mark and you take and ride them so as to show them as much of the run as you can, and keep them out of all scrapes?”

To which the Jug, who is a kindly-disposed man, and takes up with children as though he had some of his own, replies, “I will,” whereupon Mrs. Lob and all the Mammas open upon him, each urging the claims of her innocent to extra care and protection, in the midst of which Mr. Jovey Jessop having moved first his hat to the ladies, then moves his hounds out of the quarry.