Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (7 page)

T
HERE ARE FEW THINGS
so faithful as a dish of sausages, not the indigestible leadeny things cooks make in the country, but the light savoury productions of the practised hand; and friend Facey having eaten about a pound and a half of Minshull Vernon ones felt equal to any emergency; he didn't think he would ever be hungry again, so he didn't pocket his customary crust. Finding that the kennel was only seven miles off by the fields, he determined to attempt the expedition by the usual mystifying directions of the local bumpkins: “Ye mun gan to the Old Wood toll-gate and then torn to the left and then to the reet, and then keep straight endways till ye come to the pound, and then take the Hay Bridge Hill road till ye come to a four lane ends, after which ye cross the common and come oot by Newbiggin toon end,” all very plain sailing to a practised person, but quite bewildering to a stranger. However, Facey was used to country people's directions, and by dint of keeping the kennel question steadily in view, he succeeded in reaching it in about double the distance he expected. Still, he did not care much for the
détour
, consoling himself with the reflection that he was seeing the country, and would be able to rectify his mistakes in returning. He now pulled up on a rising ground, a short way off, to contemplate the unmistakeable brick and slate structure standing on the slope of a corresponding hill opposite.

Its courts

“Va-ry good,” muttered Romford, eyeing it, “va-ry good, the stables I see are behind, clock in the middle, corn lefts above—have seen many a worse-looking place than that Facey feeling his own consequence involved in the appearance.

He then sunk the hill, and crossing along a little rustic foot bridge over a gurgling stream, presently deserted the footpath for the more generous amplitude of the kennel-surrounding carriage way.

Our friend was now at one of the hunt-endowed farms, Allertor by name greatly altered and improved since Mr Heavyside's time. Indeed, its value had been more than quadrupled.

A bright green door with a highly polished brass knocker placed between diamond-patterned paned windows, now announced the huntsman's house, and making for it, a very slight rat-a-tat brought a little hooped servant girl to answer it.

“Mister What's-his-name at home?” asked Facey, who had either never heard, or had forgotten, the huntsman's patronymic.

“Mr Lotherington's in the kennel, sir,” replied the girl, dropping a curtsey.

“Then tell him Mr Romford's here,” said Facey, thinking to have the whole establishment all out in a rush.

“Please sir, Mr Bamford's here,” said the girl.

“Bamford, Bamford, know no such name; tell him to coom in,” said the Yorkshireman, who was busy in a kennel conference.

Jonathan Lotherington was a self-sufficient man, who firmly believed in the perfection of everything around him, consequently he never went from home, for change or advice. People might imitate him, he said, but he copied nobody. His was the glass to dress by. Jonathan had been many years with the Heavyside hounds, and though he came out beef-ier and beefier every season, he never recognised any change in himself. He thought, indeed, he rather improved than otherwise. He now rode eighteen stone, a grand weight, he said, for making horses steady and careful at their leaps.

Still, he had his admirers among the H.H., few more sincere than Colonel Chatterbox, with whom he was then conversing. The Colonel had been one of the old “Brothers Heavyside,” and always regretted the change that had taken place in the name. When Jonathan and he joined their sapience together they were very convincing. They could unravel a run and kill foxes over again. They were in the middle of a long towl about a twenty years' old run from Lovedale Gorse to Brierly Banks, when the little girl interrupted the narrative. Though they were both very “'cute,” according to their own accounts, and were in daily expectation of the new master, yet they neither of them thought Bamford might be Romford, and so returned to the point where the confounded coursers headed the fox on Frankton open fields and drove him off the finest line of country that ever was seen.

When Romford rolled in, the fat huntsman was standing before the fat Colonel, each poking away at the other's ribs, as they made their successful hits and recollections of the run. They were quite enthusiastic on the subject. Romford had no difficulty in recognising the huntsman, for he was attired in the last year's robes of office, viz., a purply lapped coat, warm breeches and boots—a hat instead of a cap, and the absence of spurs, was all that denoted the non-hunting day. The Colonel was green-coated, buff-vested, white-corded, and leathered-gaitered. Carmelite had taken the liberty of wiping his feet on his cords, leaving him the only consolation that they were the second day on. Jonathan and he were now both prepared against further assaults in the shape of kennel-whips held under their arms.

Though they both saw Romford coming, they neither of them thought a man in such a shabby hat, and seedy paletôt, with his Sydenham trousers turned up at the bottom, worth their attention, so they just went on poking and talking as before.

“Well, old boy,” said Romford, laying his heavy hand on Jonathan Lotherington's shoulder, “I've come to see these 'ere canine dogs.”

“Presently, sir, presently,” snapped Lotherington, as much as to say, who are you, pray, that thus interrupts?

“Presently!” retorted Romford; adding, “I'm Mr Romford, the new master.”

Lotherington started at the announcement. Off went the hat with a sweep, commensurate with a five pound tip, looking as if it would never be restored. The Colonel, too, raised his a little, and salutations being over, Facey renewed his application to see the hounds.

“Certainly, sir, certainly,” replied Lotherington, presenting Facey with a dress-protecting switch, holloaing at the same time, “Michael! here, lad! coom!” to his whip.

The lad, who was about sixty, came shambling along in the peculiar manner of dismounted horsemen, and passing out of the flagged court in which the Colonel and Lotherington had been having their kennel lecture, they entered the first lodging-house yard beyond. The door being opened, the hounds were turned off their warm benches by the lad, and came yawning and stretching themselves, giving an occasional bay, as much as to say, what are you bothering us about now? Mr Romford, like a general at a review, then took up a favourable position from which he could criticise their looks. There were several throaty splay-footed crooked-legged animals among them, and Mr Romford thought there was scarcely one that he could not find a fault in. However, that he kept to himself, pretending to imbibe all Lotherington and the Colonel said in their praise. At length the Yorkshireman, having rather over-egged the pudding with his praise, Mr Romford observed that he thought some of them must be kept for their goodness rather than their beauty. This only made the parties more vehement, and as Facey had not the means of confuting them, he made what he thought the
amende honorable
by saying they might be better than they looked. They then proceeded to the other yard. It was ditto repeated. More blear eyes, more flat sides, more weak loins. But Lotherington assured him he could carry their pedigrees right back into the last century.

“So much the worse,” muttered Romford. Then he continued his silent criticism. “Well,” at length said he, “the proof of the puddin's in the eatin', and I'll see them in the field before I say anything. Let me see,” continued he, diving into his paletôt and fishing up his “Life,” “Wednesday, that's tomorrow, Shivering Hill; Saturday, Oakenshaw Wood. What sort of a place is Oakenshaw Wood?” asked Romford.

“Very good, sir,” said Lotherington.

“Very good,” assented the Colonel.

“Then I shall most likely be there,” said Romford, returning Lotherington his switch, adding, and “now I must be off for the days are short, the roads dirty, and I don't know my way.” So saying, with a sort of half bow half nod to the Colonel, he rolled out of the kennel.

But that Abbeyfield Park kept it down, the Colonel would have said “he's a rum un.” Lotherington, less awed, thus expressed his opinion to his friend Grimstone, the head groom, who, as usual, came, crab-like, down from the stables to hear what was up.

“Ar think nout o' this Romford, mister,” said he. “Why, he cam to kennel i' buttoned boots! cam to kennel i' buttoned boots!” as if it was impossible for a man to be a sportsman who wore such things. And Grimstone shook his head as much as to say he “wouldn't do.”

N
O MAN WITH MONEY IN
his pocket need ever be long in want of a horse; this Mr Facey Romford well knew, having bought four-legged ones, three-legged ones, and two-legged ones—all sorts of horses, in fact. He had bought horses with money and without—more perhaps without than with. He would take them on trial, buy them if he saw he could sell them for more than was asked, or pay or promise so much for their use if returned. And being a bold resolute rider, people had no objection to seeing him shove their horses along, feeling perhaps that they came in for part of the credit of the performance. Many of them thought what they would give to be able to spin them along as Facey did.

Having regained Minshull Vernon, with the omission of several of the angles he had made in going to the kennel, he refreshed his inner man, and then bethought him of further cultivating the acquaintance of his morning friend, Toby Trotter. Toby was in the West-end Swell, being a member of the Jolly Owls' Club, which met there every other night, and gladly availed himself of the invitation to drink at Mr Romford's expense instead of his own. Besides, the honour of the thing was very considerable. A Master of Fox Hounds!—He had drank with many eminent men—commercial gentlemen—representatives as they called themselves,—but never with anything approaching such eminence. So he pulled up his pointed gills, readjusted his cameo brooch, and proceeded to answer the summons. At first the Owl was inclined to stand, but Romford insisted upon his sitting, and each having got his favourite beverage, rum to the Owl, gin to the Master, together with pipes, they drew to the fire and had a very discursive discussion with regard to the country and its sporting capabilities generally. From him Facey learned that there were several young farmers with goodish-like horses who might be equitably dealt with—men who wouldn't ask three hundred when they meant to take thirty—and Facey having got the names and addresses of some of these, borrowed Bullock the butcher's pony the next morning and set off in quest of the needful. He wanted a mount for the Saturday, and almost the first place he came to viz., young Mr Dibble of Cumberledge, supplied the deficiency: Dibble was going to be married to the pretty Miss Snowball and wouldn't want his horse during the honeymoon, and finding who he had for a customer, he unhesitatingly placed him at Mr Romford's disposal, declining all mention of money. If Mr Romford liked him, well and good—they then could talk about it after; if not, he could return him, and would be welcome to the loan. Dibble was not one of the swell order of farmers, who ride in scarlet and spurt the mud in their landlord's faces, but a quiet-going respectable young man, who got his day or two a week out of a great raking, snaffle-bridled, cock-thropped, chestnut horse, with white stockings; like Facey, himself rather deficient on one side of his head, his “fatther” being the gentleman, and his “moother” a cart mare. However, he could “gollop,” as Lotherington said, and leap almost anything when he was not blown. Independently of the usual trimming these sort of animals always want about the heels, a farmer's condition is seldom first rate, and the Dragon of Wantley, as the horse was called, would have been better for a little trimming all over; but this was precisely where Facey was deficient—he had no idea of neatness, let alone style, and put hunting upon much the same rough footing as shooting. “What's the use of dressing up fine when one's going to dirty oneself directly?” he used to say; so the Dragon of Wantley and his rider were much upon a par. Facey not having thought it worth his while to get the dribbling cow-boy ostler of the West-end Swell to take the long hairs off the horse any more than to try to put any lustre upon his own rusty Napoleons; and being quite a man for the morning, our friend, having made a most substantial sausage breakfast, mounted betimes to ride the Dragon of Wantley quietly on to the meet, calling as he went down street at Toby Trotter's for one of his pig-jobber-like whips in lieu of the Malacca-cane-sticked one he had left at Mother Maggison's for the inexorable County Court Bailiffs. And now, being fully accoutred, Facey got the Dragon by the head, and giving him a touch of his persuasive spurs, tried his pace along the Westfield road. He was a strong light-going horse for his size, above sixteen hands, and seemed rather pleased than otherwise at carrying a pink, making Facey hope for his better acquaintance before night. So they proceeded gaily along through highways and byeways according as the pioneering grooms directed the course, from whom, however, Facey did not receive many complimentary caps. He arrived at the meet just as the hounds came up.

It having transpired that Mr Romford would be out at Oakenshaw Wood, there was a great gathering of the H.H. to greet the new master, and many were the times Lotherington was asked by ambling up horsemen if “Mr Romford had come,” the inquirers taking the shabby old scarlet sitting slouching among the hounds to contain young Tom Snowball, the bride's brother, going to take his change out of the Dragon of Wantley, during the aforesaid honeymoon. And of course there was a good deal of awkwardness and many pantomimic gestures necessary to prevent further explosion, and stop people from saying what perhaps they ought not to say. It is very disagreeable to be talked of as if one was absent