Mr Facey Romford's Hounds (9 page)

The chase has now lasted about an hour, which, according to Mr Romford's ideas, ought to be about enough; but had the fox been light with the start he got, and never having been pressed, he was well qualified to go on for a week. The country, too, was favourable, the fields being large, the hedges easy, and the population small. But the hounds didn't get on as they ought under the circumstances, and the fox has more than once stopped to listen if they were coming at all. Facey sees their defects and pities their infirmities. “Dash it, but ye want heading and tailing,” says he, “and then I don't know that I'd give much for the middle.” Some of them, he thought, would run if the others would only let them; but they were a devilish tiresome set. “G-a-r away, ye loiterin' lumberin' beggars!” exclaimed he, cracking his cart-whip to set them forward. And away they went at a somewhat amended pace.

Now if Mr Romford missed his fox it is quite clear he would have been set down as a humbug, at all events as an officious intruder. Mr Lotherington would have declared he could have killed him if master would only have let him alone, just as a cow-leach always says he could have cured a horse if the groom had sent for him instead of the vet. And now with this evident issue before him, the Dragon of Wantley shut up at the time he was most wanted in a very summary and unexpected manner.

Facey had been so anxious pressing and forcing the hounds, that he did not feel the occasionally turnip-fed Dragon gradually sinking beneath him, until on putting him at a very low fence, he stood stock still, tail erect, nostrils distended, eye staring and fixed. “Rot it!” exclaimed Romford, jumping off “that's a bad job!” looking at the horse's heaving sides and wooden frame. It was clear he was beat.

“Here!” exclaimed he to a countryman who now came running down the hill in a pair of very impeding clogs. “Take this horse up to yon house,” pointing to a whitewashed one on the left, “and see him taken care of till I come.”

As luck would have it, this was a led farm of Mr Dibble's, and the countryman having scratched his head and given a good stare, exclaimed, “Whoy deare me it surelie be our master's lass.”

“Ah, Mr Dibble's,” replied Romford.

“Yeas!” said the man.

“Well then take and use him kindly,” rejoined Mr Romford, adding, “there's sixpence for you, and I'll give you another when I come for him if I find him all right;” so saying he resigned the horse to the man and was preparing to follow the hounds on foot.

“Fox be doon the Quarry Banks,” observed the man, pointing to the right.

“How d'ye know?” demanded Mr Romford.

“Mar dog torned him,” replied he, thinking Jowler had done a very clever thing.

“Tell me where?” rejoined Mr Romford.

“Just by you bit bush beyond the stone heap.”

Facey then off with his hat and holloaed the now baffled hounds back on the indicated line. It was as the man said. Craftsman hit off the scent with vehement energy, bringing all his comrades to the cry, and away they went round the end of Preston Hill and up the rough gorse-grown quarry banks. The pace and the music here slackened. The rougher the banks became the less vehemence there was. Romford soon saw they would require all the encouragement he could give them. The Heavyside hounds were not fond of gorse, it pricked their sides too much. They had plenty of natural covers, and preferred drawing them. Besides, going in now after the fatigue of a long and to them very sharp run was rather unreasonable. If anybody would kick the fox out for them they would pursue him in the open, but routing him out for themselves was both hard and sharp. Facey saw this, and though he had very indifferent cords on and no drawers, and much of the gorse was of vigorous growth, in he went as though it were a field of oats.

“
Eloo in there! Eloo in!
” cheered he, trying to get the reluctant hounds to give cry. Just as he was in the midst of his endeavours up came General Lotherington with the combined forces, and distributed themselves along the brow of the hill. Lotherington laying himself ten shillings to one that the fox beat the new master. Facey then continued his exertions down below with the eyes of England upon him—Argus himself in fact. The cover was long and straggling, lying against the rather steep slope of the hill, thick here and open there, through which a quick mettlesome pack would soon force a fox, but where a judicious dodger was pretty safe from the Heavysides.

In vain Romford hooped and holloaed and dashed forward on the line, trying to bring the nearest forces to bear on the scent. When the ground was open they put in a bustling appearance, but soon withdrew when the prickles were troublesome. And the fox knowing his ground and watching his opportunity, at length slipped back upon the foiled ground, thus making the difficulties doubly great. Still Romford continued his exertions, and if the gentlemen on the hill were cold, he was warm. He also coaxed in several of the now assembled foot people, assuring them the pricks were nothing, and they'd catch the fox amongst them directly. He didn't say anything about paying them. Mr Jonathan Lotherington sat sulkily on the hill contemplating the commotion below.

“If Mister What's-his-name kills this fox I'll eat him pads and all,” said the huntsman, making the bet twelve to one instead of ten. Then some of the field began to slink off. “All U.P.,” said one, “Starvation work,” said another, “Home, sweet home,” sang a third.

And certainly appearances were now greatly against Mr Romford, for the fox had got into strong quarters, while the number of ejectors became fewer and fewer. There were not above two couple of hounds in earnest. Still Romford persevered on, now scrambling, now diving, now swimming as it were through the sea of almost impervious gorse to where the light whimper told him the fugitive was ensconced. He spared neither his arms nor his legs, nor his lungs. At length even the light whimper failed, and Facey was left alone in his labours. “
Con
-found the beggar!” muttered he, as he stood scratching his head in the high gorse.

“
Told you so!
” said Mr Lotherington, triumphantly, adding with a smile and a knowing shake of his head, “taks a huntsman to kill a fox, taks a huntsman to kill a fox.” And Jonathan began fumbling at his horn as if to blow the hounds out of cover.

Yap, yeau, scranch!
the gorse shakes violently about ten yards from Romford, and taking a header he disappears in the thick of it.

Up he comes with a great ruddy dog-fox in his hand, whooping and holloaing as hard as he could shout.

“Hoo-ray!” cheered the horsemen on the hill.

“Hoo-ray!” cheered the foot people below.

“Hoo-ray!” responded Romford, holding him up.

Away Facey went dragging his prize along amid the baying of the lazy hounds, who now seemed inclined to eat him without onions. Making up to Lotherington he says, “There, old man! there's your fox,” giving it to him, and while the last obsequies of the chase are performed, our friend receives the compliments and congratulations of the field. “Never saw anything better! Wonderful performance! Deserves to be immortalised!”

So ended Mr Romford's first day with the Heavysides.

T
HE READER WILL OBSERVE THAT
we have not “Brown, Jones, and Robinson” in the field, Mr Brown, Mr Romford; Mr Jones, Mr Romford; Mr Robinson, Mr Romford; and for this reason, that, with the exception of an earnest and not uncommon desire to take care of their necks, there was nothing very particular about the H.H. gentlemen; and the fact was Mr Facey did not stay very long with them. Of course, after the run described in the last chapter, he rose rapidly in public estimation, and his fame kept increasing every time he went out—increasing with everyone save Mr Lotherington, who liked Facey less every time he saw him. At length, having ridden another borrowed horse to a standstill, Facey most unhandsomely dismounted Lotherington, under pretence of assisting at a mutual “lead over,” when, getting on to Lotherington's horse, Facey galloped away, leaving the huntsman in the lurch. This indignity Lotherington could not brook; and having feathered his nest pretty well, the expenditure of the hunt having been a good deal under his control, he anticipated Romford's dismissal by giving him up, which he did rather cavalierly—so much so, indeed, that Facey, who was by no means fastidious, told him he was uncommon welcome to go, adding that he need not apply to him for a character. Whereupon, Lotherington, embodying all the slights and contumely he had received at Facey's hands—the old man'd, old woman'd, slandered as no fox-killer, robbed of his horse—embodying all these, we say, in one bitter pill, Lotherington replied—

“I'm sure, sir, if you never mention I've lived with you, I never shall, for I'm most
heartily 'shamed of it.
”

Facey, however, cared little for that sort of thing; indeed, it was rather in his favour, for it put him in possession of Lotherington's horses, which belonged to the hunt, thereby saving him the trouble of begging and borrowing others. And Minshull Vernon being rather wide of the kennel, he presently removed to more convenient quarters at the snug little hostelry known by the sign of the “Dog and Partridge” inn, by the side of the Marlingford and Rockland road.

It was a quiet little solitary, stone-slated, six-roomed house, and standing in a clump of venerable elms; and Facey got a comfortable carpeted parlour, with the usual complement of stuffed birds, samplers, and sand-boxes, with a bed-room above, for ten shillings a-week, fire and cooking included. And here he did very well, getting his hunting and shooting for nothing, without the persecution of visitors; for though the H.H.'s were a most respectable twenty shillings in the pound set of men, they did little or nothing in the way of extraneous gaiety. No balls, no breakfasts, no dinners, no nothing, and it is much to be questioned if they had not the endowment whether they would have had any hunt either. This, then, seemed just the very thing to suit a rough and ready customer like friend Facey, and why it did not must be reserved until we have introduced one or two more of our
dramatis personæ
to the reader. We may, however, state that Facey did uncommonly well in the country. He was most assiduous in showing sport, no day being too long or distance too great for him; and he rode in a way that astonished the natives, saving his horse where saving was right, but never saving him to the detriment of sport. They had never seen such a pounder before. He never turned away from anything, and if he couldn't leap he would lead over, his only anxiety being to get to his hounds. Even these he improved considerably, getting them to come quicker to holloas, and not lie on the scent, as old Lotherington had let them. So Facey really seemed to have benefited by the loss of his “oncle's” fortune. If he had got it, in all probability he would have been nothing but a mere farmer, whereas now he was a master of hounds, courted and consulted, with people touching their hats to him, and paying him for enjoying himself in hunting the country. Nothing could be better. He only wished the woman in black could see him, and those terrible little imps of hers that he still saw dancing in his mind. And Jog, poor old Jog! what an ass the old stick-cutter was. He wondered what Jog would think of him, and what he would take for his chance of getting his (Jog's) fifty pounds back again. Soapy Sponge had hit Jog hard—he (Facey) had eclipsed Sponge altogether.

The H.H. being an early country, and the season whose doings we are recording an unusually dry one, Facey did not care to prolong it to the prejudice of the vixens, especially as there were no itinerant sportsmen who must either hunt or sleep, all the H.H.'s having something to do either in the way of farming, or draining, or driving, or doctoring, or what not.

So Facey having killed his ten brace of foxes, making, with Lotherington's five foxes, twelve brace and a half, shut up by giving two grand entertainments to the keepers and earth-stoppers, at the “Dog and Partridge” inn, at which he himself presided, thereby making the acquaintance of a very important class of men, with a good deal of summer amusement in their power; and though Facey was a big hen-speckled fellow, none of them could ever see him doing what he ought not to do, either in the way of fishing, shooting, netting, or what not. So he seemed landed in clover, and being a wise man, set about improving his position.

And Facey having a good idea of what a pack of hounds should be—say, three-and-twenty inches high, with bone and substance, pressers, but not hurryers, with plenty of music—bethought him of improving the H.H.'s by heading and tailing the pack, and introducing a liberal infusion of fresh blood among them. To this end he wrote to the huntsmen of several of the best packs in the kingdom, the Belvoir, the Beaufort, the Bramham, and others, engaging their draughts, young and old, particularly mentioning in each letter that they were not to be sent to Abbeyfield Park, but to some quiet, out-of-the-way railway station therein specified, where they would be met by people who knew nothing about Facey, and again transferred to others who did; and the letters being written on good paper—best cream-laid—and sealed with the right Romford crest—a Turbot sitting upon its tail on a cap of Dignity—the huntsmen had no hesitation in complying with the orders, feeling, perhaps, rather flattered than otherwise at their draught going into such good hands. The seal, we may mention, was a bread one, made by Facey from an impression on a letter, or rather on an envelope from the other Mr Romford, enclosing a dunning shoemaker's bill to friend Facey, that somehow or other, after boxing the compass, had found its way to Abbeyfield Park, in the extraordinary way that lost hounds and letters do cast up. And a most useful adjunct this bread seal was for, independently of other advantages, Facey got a most valuable lot of hounds together by it, and, though perhaps rather anticipating our story, we may add that he never paid for them, our independent master either treating the letters with silent contempt, or writing such abusive answers to the applications for the money, denouncing the hounds as a skirting, babbling, over running, sheep-worrying lot, not worth hanging, as perfectly astonished the worthy huntsmen, who, thinking they must be deceived in their judgment, or that the hounds had been changed on the journey, felt rather sorry than otherwise at having disappointed so good a sportsman as the Turbot on its tail, Mr Romford.