CHAPTER XVI RIDING TO SELL

If Mr. Sawyer had kept a hunting journal (which he didn’t) he would have noted down the meet at Barkby, as one of those gorgeous spectacles, which makes an ineffaceable impression on the eye of the unpractised beholder. There appeared to be more hounds, more horses, more servants, more carriages, and altogether a larger staff and retinue attached to the establishment, than he had ever hitherto seen paraded for the purpose of killing a fox. Nevertheless, with all this show, there was no mistake about the workmanlike tendency of the turn-out. If the pack was numerous, it was also exceedingly level and in faultless condition; the huntsman and whips looked as if they must have been born and bred for the especial offices they respectively filled, and the second-horse men, notwithstanding their number, appeared to be all cut from the same pattern. As for the hunters, Mr. Sawyer would have wished no better luck than to ride the worst of them at a hundred and fifty guineas. One magnificent bay with a side-saddle, destined, no doubt, to carry a beautiful and precious burden, quite put him out of conceit with Hotspur and the grey. As for Marathon! why he would never have got on him, in such company, had not the pleasing reflection crossed his mind, that perhaps to-day he should get rid of the brute altogether.

He had ridden The Dandy very leisurely to covert, in consideration of the animal’s services before dawn, and had sent on the grey with an occasional helper from the inn, under the superintendence of The Boy, who was perched on Marathon: old Isaac, who wanted to buy some hay cheap, having given himself leave of absence for the day. The helper, with many injunctions to go steadily, was entrusted with the homeward-bound hack; and The Boy shifted to the second horse, whilst Mr. Sawyer himself bestrode the redoubtable bay. All these arrangements, with the accompanying pulling up of curb-chains and letting down of stirrup-leathers, took some little time. Before our friend was fairly mounted and under way, the hounds had gone on to draw, and he found himself nearly the last of the lengthening cavalcade. Under existing circumstances this was no great disadvantage, and the quieter he kept the bay, he thought, the better was his chance of selling him; yet he could not help wishing old Isaac had left the whole business alone. He might then have been forward with the hounds, looking out for a start on whichever horse he liked best, uninfluenced—as a man always should be, really to enjoy fox-hunting—by the sordid considerations of ￡. s. d.

Marathon was very fresh, and set his back up, squeaking in a most undignified manner, and swishing his heavy tail, till it reached his rider’s hat.

A horse galloping up from behind set him plunging with a violence that was scarcely pleasant, even to so practised a rider as our friend. He returned the greeting of the new comer—no less a personage than the Honourable Crasher, late as usual, and cantering to the front on Boadicea by Bellerophon out of Blue Light—with a preoccupied air of a man who expects every moment to be on his back.

The Honourable, slightly amused, pulled up alongside. “Halloa, Sawyer,” said he, “you’ll be hard to beat to-day: the steeple-chaser seems uncommon full of running.”

“It’s only his play,” answered Mr. Sawyer, modestly; indulging Marathon, who was preparing for another kick, with a vicious jerk of the curb. “I can’t get my old groom to give him work enough, and he’s sent me a second horse out to-day.”

This was meant to imply that the kicker was too valuable an animal for a mere hunter, and the Honourable interpreted it accordingly. As he rode alongside, he scanned the bay’s points with the critical eye of a purchaser. A horse never looks so well as when he is trotting beside you on a strip of grass, excited by the presence of hounds. If backed by a good horseman, the veriest brute, under these circumstances, makes the most of his own appearance. Marathon going within himself, playing lightly with his bit, and bringing his hind legs under his girths at every step, was a very different horse from the same Marathon extended and labouring, in a sticky ploughed field. I have already said he possessed many qualities sufficiently taking to the eye. As the Honourable examined him from his muzzle to his hocks, he could not but acknowledge that the horse looked uncommonly like a galloper. “If he can only jump,” thought Crasher, “and get pretty quick over his fences, he ought to be a rattler. I suppose I shall have to buy him.”

Meanwhile Mr. Sawyer, who, as he remarked of himself, “was not such a fool as he looked,” but on the contrary resembled those “still waters” which the German proverb says “run so deep,” conversed affably with his friend on a number of topics totally unconnected with horseflesh, or the pleasures of the hunting-field. For once in his life, he did not want to get a start, that’s the truth; and as his companion was one of those indolent, easy-going people whose fancy can be led astray without difficulty in any given direction, they were soon deep in a variety of subjects, originating no doubt with Mr. Sawyer, but to which, I am bound to say, he had never devoted much of his time or attention. They touched upon the last misadventure brought under the notice of Sir Cresswell Cresswell—discussed the agricultural prospects of the season, and on this theme it would be difficult to say which was most incapable of giving an opinion—argued on the importance of a movement for taking the duty off cigars, and lastly got involved in the interminable question of what use the Volunteers would be, in the event of an invasion, and whether or not they would be killed to a man, when their conversation was cut short by an obvious bustle and confusion about a mile ahead of them, denoting that a fox had not only been found, but gone away.

“Done to a turn!” exclaimed the Honourable, interrupting his own explanation of how he should handle skirmishers if he was a general officer, which, by the way, it was fortunate for the skirmishers he was not. “What a bore! We sha’n’t catch them in a week!” he added, turning Boadicea’s head at the fence, and starting her at score through a deep ploughed field. In a few strides he had forgotten skirmishers, and Marathon, and Mr. Sawyer, and everything in the world except that he had lost his start.

The latter, watching the line “fine by degrees and beautifully less” on the horizon, rather congratulated himself, that his chance was completely out, and that there was now no temptation for him either to exert his own energies, or draw upon the failing powers of Marathon in the pursuit of that which he felt could scarcely be called pleasure. He jogged along the lane accordingly, content enough, thinking what fun he would have on the grey, in the afternoon, with a second fox!

But a few of us can have hunted much without remarking a peculiarity connected with the chase, that occasions constant irritation and annoyance to its votaries. Have you never observed, that if you lose your chance of getting away with hounds, whether from procrastination, inattention, or the laudable objection entertained by a rational man to ride at a large fence, do what you will, you only succeed in increasing the distance between yourself and the object you wish to reach? In vain you “nick,” and “skirt,” and ride to points that you think likely to be affected by a fox running for his life; in vain you “harden your heart,” and sail away boldly over the line of gaps already established by your predecessors; you are only tiring your horse, and risking your neck in a wild-goose chase. You diverge to a distant halloo, and find it raised by a boy scaring crows. You succeed by extraordinary exertions in reaching the group of scarlet coats and bobbing hats you have been following so long, and learn that they have been “thrown out” like yourself, and the further you go, the further you are left behind; till you hate yourself, as much as your horse hates you for not having judiciously joined the band of second-horse riders, and so jogged contentedly along in ease and safety, sure to come up with the first flight at last.

On the other hand, we will suppose that you have tired your best hunter early in the day, or he had fallen lame on that weak point where everybody said he would be lame when you bought him, or you have a hundred and fifty other reasons for wishing to sneak quietly home, out of the observation of your friends. Those plaguy hounds seem to follow you as if you were the Wild Huntsman himself, and you begin to appreciate the severity of the punishment inflicted on that wicked German Baron. They draw coverts that lie on your homeward way. They find, and hunt with provoking persistency alongside the very lane up which you would fain jog in solitude, crossing it more than once under your nose. There is sure to be a fair holding scent, not good enough to enable them to run clear out of your neighbourhood and have done with it, yet sufficient to afford plenty of enjoyment to such as are with them; these have, nevertheless, leisure to observe your movements, and to wonder why you are not amongst them. They are all your own particular friends, and you know you will be called upon, next hunting morning, to answer the difficult question—“What became of you, after we left you in the road at So-and-so?” Diana seems to delight in the rule of contrary. Like the rest of her sex, she takes you up and persecutes you, when you don’t want her; and when you are most ardent and zealous in her pursuit, she rebuffs you and puts you down.

Nothing could be further from Mr. Sawyer’s wishes than to find himself, on the present occasion, in a conspicuous position with the Quorn hounds. Had he wanted to be singled out in front of all that talent and beauty, Marathon was certainly the last animal he would have chosen on which to make an appearance in such choice company; nevertheless, the force of circumstances is beyond the control even of men like Mr. Sawyer, and however averse he might be to “achieve greatness,” he found, most unwillingly, “greatness thrust upon him.” For awhile he had lost sight of everybody, and was in the act of pulling out his cigar-case to enjoy one of his Laranagas in solitude and repose, proposing to hang on the line, keeping a little down wind, and as soon as he should spy the second-horses, mount the grey, and send Marathon straight home. Crasher, he thought, would buy the horse without asking any more questions.

Scarcely, however, had he got his weed fairly under weigh, than the music of a pack of hounds broke suddenly on his ear from behind a high impervious bullfinch that sheltered one side of the grass-lane along which he was proceeding so leisurely. “Confound the brutes!” said Sawyer to himself, “here they are again!” As he opened the gate through which the track led into a sixty-acre pasture, the whole pack swept under his horse’s nose, running with sufficient energy to denote what sportsmen call a holding scent; they carried a capital head, and were forcing their fox at a pace which kept him going, but was not good enough to come up with him.

It was just the sort of gallop that enables people who ride to hounds to look about them, and enjoy not only the sport, but the accompanying humours of the scene.

In these days, a real quick thing is such an affair of hurry, that the lucky few who are in it cannot spare a moment’s attention from anything but their horses’ ears.

Had he been riding a donkey, it was not in Mr. Sawyer’s nature to abstain from turning the animal’s head towards the hounds under such temptation; moreover, he distinguished amongst the first flight his Harborough companions, including the pale face of the Honourable Crasher, who by “bucketing” Boadicea most unmercifully, had got there somehow, and appeared quite satisfied with his situation. What could our friend do, but cut in, and go to work at once?

Marathon, excited by the turmoil, was fain to set his back up once more. He found, however, that the kicking was now all the other way. Taking him in a grasp that would have lifted a ton, Mr. Sawyer drove his spurs into the half-bred brute, and set him going close to the hounds at the best pace he could command. For a short distance, and when held well together, Marathon could stride away in a very imposing form. The sensation of having a lead is, in itself, provocative of emulation; behind our friend were four or five intimate companions, who were not likely to let him hear the last of any instance of “shirking” that should come under their notice. Close on their track were the flower of Leicestershire; and these again were succeeded, so to speak, by a whole army of camp-followers, “maddening in the rear.” Had the Styx been in front of him, he must have charged it “in or over.”

Instead of the waters of Acheron, however, there was nothing more formidable in his line than a straggling, overgrown bullfinch at the far end of the field; just such a fence, indeed, as Marathon was in the habit of declining, but yet which he hoped the turmoil behind, the general excitement, and the persuasive powers of his own spurs, would enable him to induce his horse to face. He had plenty of time to scan it as he approached. Half-a-mile or so of ridge-and-furrow, even at a hunter’s best pace, gives leisure for consideration. Ere the hounds had strung through it in single file, he was aware of a wide ditch to him; on the farther side was obviously a grass-field, and an uncertainty!

Marking with his eye the weakest place, through which, nevertheless, he could not see daylight, Mr. Sawyer, crammed his hat on his head, and set his horse resolutely at the fence; Marathon, according to custom, when he expected anything out of the common, shutting up every stride he went. Had it not been rather downhill, even his master’s consummate horsemanship would have failed to bring him close to it. The fall of the ground, however, and the pace he was going, forbade the bay to stop. Crash! he plunged into the very middle of the fence—broke through it from sheer velocity, to jerk both knees against a strong oak rail beyond—blundered on to his nose over that—slid half-a-dozen yards on his head—nearly recovered himself—stumbled once more, and finally got up again, with his curb-rein turned over his ears; the rider’s feet out of both stirrups, hat off, a contusion on his left eyebrow, and the horse’s nostrils fall of mud, but no fall!

“By the powers, that’s a rum one!” said Mr. Sawyer, as he cantered slowly up the opposite slope, repairing damages the while, and turned round to see the first flight charge the obstacle, which had so nearly disposed of his own chance.

“Four loose horses galloping wildly away.”

Lusty as eagles, ravenous as wolves, jealous as girls, down came the four gluttons at the fence, each man having chosen his own place, and scorning to deviate one hair’s breadth from his line. None, however, had made so judicious a selection as Mr. Sawyer. The rail, which had so nearly discomfited the latter, would neither bend nor break, but he had the luck of getting it where it was lowest and nearest to the fence; everywhere else it was not only high, but stood out a horse’s length into the field, just the place which must catch the cleverest hunter in the world, if ridden to do it all in its stride.

The scene that met Mr. Sawyer’s eyes was amusing, though alarming. Four imperial crowners at one and the same instant—four loose horses galloping wildly away—four red-coats rising simultaneously from Mother Earth—eight top-booted legs shuffling in ludicrous haste after the departing steeds. Had our friend been Briareus himself, he could not have caught all their horses. He was a man, however, who seldom lost an opportunity, and was not likely to miss such a chance as the present. Selecting Boadicea, he galloped after her, and succeeded in pinning her against a pound: notwithstanding that the mare lashed out at him more than once, he brought her back in triumph to her panting owner.

Meanwhile, the four dismounted sportsmen condoled breathlessly with each other, as they laboured up the grassy slope.

“I’m but a poor hand at this game,” observed Struggles, who did not fancy carrying his own weight across country.

“I wish I’d gone faster at it,” said Savage, who had been grinding his teeth and hardening his heart the whole way up the field.

“My chestnut mare would have jumped it!” exclaimed Major Brush, inwardly registering a vow to abstain from “oxers” for the future; whilst the Honourable, though he held his tongue, was thinking what a capital horse that was of Sawyer’s, and dismally reflecting that if Boadicea hadn’t kicked at him when he was down, he never would have been such a tailor as to let her go.

“Catch hold!” said Mr. Sawyer, throwing the mare’s reins to her owner, whose gratitude he thereby earned for the rest of his life. “There’s no hurry,” he added, as the Honourable, in a coat plastered with mud and a hat stove in, dived wildly at his stirrup; “they’ve over-run it a mile back, and checked in the next field.”

The latter part of the sentence was true enough. His quick eye had shown him the pack at fault, as he secured Boadicea in the corner where the pound stood; the former was a bit of what theatrical people call “gag.” It was as much as to say, “Whilst you fellows are hustling and spurting, and tumbling about, I am so well mounted that I can observe matters as coolly as if I was hunting in a balloon.”

It was not without its effect on his listener. As they rode through the hand-gate together into the enclosure where the hounds were at fault, the Honourable Crasher no longer scanned Marathon with the eye of a purchaser. He looked on the horse now as his own property. He was determined to have him.

By some mysterious law of nature, whenever one individual succeeds either in what is termed pounding a field, or in getting such a start of them that nobody shall have a chance of catching him whilst the pace holds—and this, be it observed, is no everyday occurrence in countries where the best riders in England congregate for the express purpose of riding as well as they can—it invariably happens that the immediate failure of scent, or some such untoward contingency, robs the lucky one of his anticipated triumph. On the present occasion, much to Mr. Sawyer’s delight, they never hit off their fox again. By degrees, the tail of the field straggled up, having found their way by every available gate and gap; then came the second-horses, carefully ridden, cool, and comparatively clean, not having turned a hair; lastly, arrived a man in a gig, by a convenient bridle-road, hotter than any one present, wiping his face on a coloured handkerchief, which he afterwards put in the crown of his hat.

Whilst sandwiches were being munched, and silver horns drained of their contents, ginger-cordial, orange-brandy, V.O.P.,[1] and other enticing fluids, Mr. Sawyer was giving The Boy stringent orders about taking Marathon home. He could not feel thoroughly comfortable till that impostor was fairly out of sight, and he should find himself established on the unassuming little grey.

1.  Very Old Pale—a tempting label attached to certain black bottles containing the best French brandy; an excellent liquor, doubtless, and wholesome, provided you don’t drink too much of it. Opinions vary, however, as to what is too much. The modest quencher of 9 P.M. growing to a superfluous stimulant at the same hour the following morning.

When he had made up his mind, the Honourable Crasher was a man of few words. Refreshed by a mouthful of sherry, not unacceptable after a rattling fall, and comfortably perched on the back of Confidence, a delightful animal that a child could ride, and perhaps the best and safest hunter in his stable, he ranged alongside of our friend, and plunged at once in medias res.

“So you want to sell the bay horse you have just sent home?” said he, with none of the hesitation and beating about the bush to which Mr. Sawyer had hitherto been accustomed in his horse-dealing operations. “If you do, and will name the price you ask for him, I should like to buy him.”

The owner could not resist the impulse of enhancing the value of his horse, by affecting unwillingness to sell him and, in so doing, nearly lost the chance of disposing of him, altogether.

“I don’t think I ought to part with him,” said he reflectively; “it strikes me he’s about the best in my stable.”

Crasher fell back apparently satisfied. It was evident he did not attach so much importance to the act of “exchange or barter” as did our friend. Mr. Sawyer picked himself up without loss of time. “I shouldn’t like to sell him to everybody,” said he affectionately, “but if you fancy him very much, I wouldn’t mind letting you have him,” he added, after a pause, and in the tone of a man who makes a painful sacrifice in the cause of friendship.

“I’ll give you two hundred and fifty for him,” drawled out the Honourable, with apparently about as much interest as he would have felt in paying three-and-sixpence for a pair of gloves.

“Guineas!” stipulated Mr. Sawyer; “Guineas,” was the answer; and in this simple manner the deal was concluded.

My readers will agree with Isaac and his master, in thinking that Marathon was not the only one of the party who was pretty well sold. The old groom laughed in his sleeve a week afterwards, when he heard that on giving him “a spin” with Chance, just to keep his pipes clear, the mare went away from him as if he was standing still.

Mr. Tiptop couldn’t make it out at all.