Mr. Sponge's Sporting Tour

  CHAPTER XXIX

  THE CROSS-ROADS AT DALLINGTON BURN

  When his lordship and Jack mounted their hacks in the morning to go to thecross-roads at Dallington Burn, it was so dark that they could not seewhether they were on bays or browns. It was a dull, murky day, with heavyspongy clouds overhead.

  There had been a great deal of rain in the night, and the horses poachedand squashed as they went. Our sportsmen, however, were prepared as wellfor what had fallen as for what might come; for they were encased inenormously thick boots, with baggy overalls, and coats and waistcoats ofthe stoutest and most abundant order. They had each a sack of a mackintoshstrapped on to their saddle fronts. Thus they went blobbing and gropingtheir way along, varying the monotony of the journey by an occasional spurtof muddy water up into their faces, or the more nerve-trying noise of afloundering stumble over a heap of stones by the roadside. The countrypeople stared with astonishment as they passed, and the muggers andtinkers, who were withdrawing their horses from the farmers' fields, stoodtrembling, lest they might be the 'pollis' coming after them.

  'I think it'll be a fine day,' observed his lordship, after they hadbumped for some time in silence without its getting much lighter. 'I thinkit will be a fine day,' he said, taking his chin out of his greatpuddingy-spotted neckcloth, and turning his spectacled face up to theclouds.

  'The want of light is its chief fault,' observed Jack, adding, 'it's deuceddark!'

  'Ah, it'll get better of that,' observed his lordship. 'It's not much aftereight yet,' he added, staring at his watch, and with difficulty making outthat it was half-past. 'Days take off terribly about this time of year,' heobserved; 'I've seen about Christmas when it has never been rightly lightall day long.'

  They then floundered on again for some time further as before.

  'Shouldn't wonder if we have a large field,' at length observed Jack,bringing his hack alongside his lordship's.

  'Shouldn't wonder if Puff himself was to come--all over brooches and ringsas usual,' replied his lordship.

  'And Charley Slapp, I'll be bund to say,' observed Jack. 'He a regularhanger-on of Puff's.'

  'Ass, that Slapp,' said his lordship; 'hate the sight of him!'

  'So do I,' replied Jack, adding, 'hate a hanger-on!'

  'There are the hounds,' said his lordship, as they now approached CulvertonDean, and a line of something white was discernible travelling thezig-zagging road on the opposite side.

  'Are they, think you?' replied Jack, staring through his great spectacles;'are they, think you? It looks to me more like a flock of sheep.'

  'I believe you're right,' said his lordship, staring too; 'indeed, I hearthe dog. The hounds, however, can't be far ahead.'

  They then drew into single file to take the broken horse-track through thesteep woody dean.

  'This is the longest sixteen miles I know,' observed Jack, as they emergedfrom it, and overtook the sheep.

  'It is,' replied his lordship, spurring his hack, who was now beginning tolag: 'the fact is, it's eighteen,' he continued; 'only if I was to tellFrosty it was eighteen, he would want to lay overnight, and that wouldn'tdo. Besides the trouble and inconvenience, it would spoil the best part ofa five-pund note; and five-pund notes don't grow upon gooseberry-bushes--atleast, not in my garden.'

  'Rather scarce in all gardens just now, I think,' observed Jack; 'at least,I never hear of anybody with one to spare.'

  'Money's like snow,' said his lordship, 'a very meltable article; andtalking of snow,' he said, looking up at the heavy clouds, 'I wish wemayn't be going to have some--I don't like the look of things overhead.'

  'Heavy,' replied Jack; 'heavy: however, it's due about now.'

  'Due or not due,' said his lordship, 'it's a thing one never wishes tocome; anybody may have my share of snow that likes--frost too.'

  The road, or rather track, now passed over Blobbington Moor, and ourfriends had enough to do to keep their horses out of peat-holes and bogs,without indulging in conversation. At length they cleared the moor, and,pulling out a gap at the corner of the inclosures, cut across a few fields,and got on to the Stumpington turnpike.

  'The hounds are here,' said Jack, after studying the muddy road for sometime.

  'They'll not be there long,' replied his lordship, 'for Grabtintoll Gateisn't far ahead, and we don't waste our substance on pikes.'

  His lordship was right. The imprints soon diverged up a muddy lane on theright, and our sportsmen now got into a road so deep and bottomless as toput the idea of stones quite out of the question.

  'Hang the road!' exclaimed his lordship, as his hack nearly came on hisnose, 'hang the road!' repeated he, adding, 'if Puff wasn't such an ass, Ireally think I'd give him up the cross-road country.'

  'It's bad to get at from us,' observed Jack, who didn't like such trashingdistances.

  'Ah! but it's a rare good country when you get to it,' replied hislordship, shortening his rein and spurring his steed.

  The lane being at length cleared, the road became more practicable, passingover large pastures where a horseman could choose his own ground, insteadof being bound by the narrow limits of the law. But though the roadimproved, the day did not; a thick fog coming drifting up from thesouth-east in aid of the general obscurity of the scene.

  'The day's gettin' _wuss_,' observed Jack, snuffling and staring about.

  'It'll blow over,' replied his lordship, who was not easily disheartened.'It'll blow over,' repeated he, adding, 'often rare scents such days asthese. But we must put on,' continued he, looking at his watch, 'for it'shalf-past, and we are a mile or more off yet.' So saying, he clapped spursto his hack and shot away at a canter, followed by Jack at a long-drawn'hammer and pincers' trot.

  A hunt is something like an Assize circuit, where certain great guns showeverywhere, and smaller men drop in here and there, snatching a day or abrief, as the case may be. Sergeant Bluff and Sergeant Huff rustle andwrangle in every court, while Mr. Meeke and Mr. Sneeke enjoy their frightson the forensic arenas of their respective towns, on behalf of simpleneighbours, who look upon them as thorough Solomons. So with hunts. Certainmen who seem to have been sent into the world for the express purpose ofhunting, arrive at every meet, far and near, with a punctuality that istruly surprising, and rarely associated with pleasure.

  If you listen to their conversation, it is generally a dissertation on theprevious day's sport, with inquiries as to the nearest way to cover thenext. Sometimes it is seasoned with censure of some other pack they havebeen seeing. These men are mounted and appointed in a manner that showswhat a perfect profession hunting is with them. Of course, they comecantering to cover, lest any one should suppose they ride their horses on.

  The 'Cross-roads' was like two hunts or two circuits joining, for itgenerally drew the picked men from each, to say nothing of outriggers andchance customers. The regular attendants of either hunt were sufficientlydistinguishable as well by the flat hats and baggy garments of the one, asby the dandified, Jemmy Jessamy air of the other. If a lord had not been atthe head of the Flat Hats, the Puffington men would have considered theminsufferable snobs. But to our day.

  As usual, where hounds have to travel a long distance, the field wereassembled before they arrived. Almost all the cantering gentlemen had castup.

  One cross-road meet being so much like another, it will not be worth whiledescribing the one at Dallington Burn. The reader will have the kindness toimagine a couple of roads crossing an open common, with an armlesssign-post on one side, and a rubble-stone bridge, with several of thecoping-stones lying in the shallow stream below, on the other.

  The country round about, if any country could have been seen, would haveshown wild, open, and cheerless. Here a patch of wood, there a patch ofheath, but its general aspect bare and unfruitful. The commanding outlineof Beechwood Forest was not visible for the weather. Time now, let ussuppose, half-past ten, with a full muster of horsemen and a fog makingunwonted dulness of the scene--the old sign-pole being the most conspi
cuousobject of the whole.

  Hark! what a clamour there is about it. It's like a betting-post atNewmarket. How loud the people talk! What's the news? Queen Anne dead, oris there another French Revolution, or a fixed duty on corn? Reader, Mr.Puffington's hounds have had a run, and the Flat Hat men are disputing it.

  'Nothing of the sort! nothing of the sort!' exclaims Fossick, 'I know everyyard of the country, and you can't make more nor eight of it anyhow, ifeight.'

  'Well, but I've measured it on the map,' replied the speaker (Charley Slapphimself), 'and it's thirteen, if it's a yard.'

  'Then the country's grown bigger since my day,' rejoins Fossick, 'for I wasdropped at Stubgrove, which is within a mile of where you found, and I'vewalked, and I've ridden, and I've driven every yard of the distance, andyou can't make it more than eight, if it's as much. Can you, Capon?'exclaimed Fossick, appealing to another of the 'flat brims,' whose luminousface now shone through the fog.

  'No,' replied Capon, adding, 'not so much, I should say.'

  Just then up trotted Frostyface with the hounds.

  'Good morning, Frosty! good morning!' exclaim half-a-dozen voices, that itwould be difficult to appropriate from the denseness of the fog. Frosty andthe whips make a general salute with their caps.

  'Well, Frosty, I suppose you've heard what a run we had yesterday?'exclaims Charley Slapp, as soon as Frosty and the hounds are settled.

  'Had they, sir--had they?' replies Frosty, with a slight touch of his capand a sneer. 'Glad to hear it, sir--glad to hear it. Hope they killed,sir--hope they killed!' with a still slighter touch of the cap.

  'Killed, aye!--killed in the open just below Crabstone Green, in _your_country,' adding, 'It was one of your foxes, I believe.'

  'Glad of it, sir--glad of it, sir,' replies Frosty. 'They wanted bloodsadly--they wanted blood sadly. Quite welcome to one of our foxes,sir--_quite_ welcome. That's a brace and a 'alf they've killed.'

  'Brace and a ha-r-r-f!' drawls Slapp, in well-feigned disgust; 'brace and aha-r-r-f!--why, it makes them ten brace, and six run to ground.'

  'Oh, don't tell _me_,' retorts Frosty, with a shake of disgust; 'don't tellme. I knows better--I knows better. They'd only killed a brace since theybegan hunting up to yesterday. The rest were all cubs, poor things!--allcubs, poor things! Mr. Puffington's hounds are not the sort of animals tokill foxes: nasty, skirtin', flashy, jealous divils; always starin' aboutfor holloas and assistance. I'll be d----d if I'd give eighteenpence forthe 'ole lot on 'em.'

  A loud guffaw from the Flat Hat men greeted this wholesale condemnation.The Puffington men looked unutterable things, and there is no saying whatdisagreeable comparisons might have been instituted (for thePuffingtonians mustered strong) had not his lordship and Jack cast up atthe moment. Hats off and politeness was then the order of the day.

  'Mornin',' said his lordship, with a snatch of his hat in return, as hepulled up and stared into the cloud-enveloped crowd; 'Mornin', Fyle;mornin', Fossick,' he continued, as he distinguished those worthies, asmuch by their hats as anything else. 'Where are the horses?' he said toFrostyface.

  JACK FROSTY AND CHARLEY SLAPP]

  'Just beyond there, my lord,' replied the huntsman, pointing with his whipto where a cockaded servant was 'to-and-froing' a couple of hunters--abrown and a chestnut.

  'Let's be doing,' said his lordship, trotting up to them and throwinghimself off his hack like a sack. Having divested himself of his muddyoveralls, he mounted the brown, a splendid sixteen-hands horse in tip-topcondition, and again made for the field in all the pride of masterlyequestrianism. A momentary gleam of sunshine shot o'er the scene; a jerk ofthe head acted as a signal to throw off, and away they all moved from themeet.

  Thorneybush Gorse was a large eight-acre cover, formed partly of gorse andpartly of stunted blackthorn, with here and there a sprinkling of Scotchfirs. His lordship paid two pounds a year for it, having vainly tried toget it for thirty shillings, which was about the actual value of the land,but the proprietor claimed a little compensation for the trampling ofhorses about it; moreover, the Puffington men would have taken it at twopounds. It was a sure find, and the hounds dashed into it with a scent.

  The field ranged themselves at the accustomed corner, both hunts full oftheir previous day's run. Frostyface's 'Yoicks, wind him!' 'Yoicks, pushhim up!' was drowned in a medley of voices.

  A loud, clear, shrill 'TALLY-HO, AWAY!' from the far side of the covercaused all tongues to stop, and all hands to drop on the reins. Great wasthe excitement! Each hunt was determined to take the shine out of theother.

  'Twang, twang, twang!' 'Tweet, tweet, tweet!' went his lordship's andFrostyface's horns, as they came bounding over the gorse to the spot, withthe eager pack rushing at their horses' heels. Then as the hounds crossedthe line of scent, there was such an outburst of melody in cover, and suchgathering of reins and thrusting on of hats outside! The hounds dashed outof cover as if somebody was kicking them. A man in scarlet was seen flyingthrough the fog, producing the usual hold-hardings. 'Hold hard, sir!' 'Godbless you, hold hard, sir!' with inquiries as to 'who the chap was that wasgoing to catch the fox.'

  'It's Lumpleg!' exclaimed one of the Flat Hat men.

  'No, it's not!' roared a Puffingtonite; 'Lumpleg's here.'

  'Then it's Charley Slapp; he's always doing it,' rejoined the firstspeaker. 'Most jealous man in the world.'

  'Is he!' exclaimed Slapp, cantering past at his ease on a thoroughbredgrey, as if he could well afford to dispense with a start.

  Reader! it was neither Lumpleg nor Slapp, nor any of the Puffington snobs,or Flat Hat swells, or Puffington swells, or Flat Hat snobs. It was our oldfriend Sponge; Monsieur Tonson again! Having arrived late, he had postedhimself, unseen, by the cover side, and the fox had broke close to him.Unfortunately, he had headed him back, and a pretty kettle of fish was theresult. Not only had he headed him back, but the resolute chestnut, havingtaken it into his head to run away, had snatched the bit between his teeth;and carried him to the far side of a field ere Sponge managed tomanoere him round on a very liberal semi-circle, and face the nowflying sportsmen, who came hurrying on through the mist like a charge ofyeomanry after a salute. All was excitement, hurry-scurry, andhorse-hugging, with the usual spurring, elbowing, and exertion to get intoplaces, Mr. Fossick considering he had as much right to be before Mr. Fyleas Mr. Fyle had to be before old Capon.

  It apparently being all the same to the chestnut which way he went so longas he had his run, he now bore Sponge back as quickly as he had carried himaway, and with yawning mouth, and head in the air, he dashed right at thecoming horsemen, charging Lord Scamperdale full tilt as he was in the actof returning his horn to its case. Great was the collision! His lordshipflew one way, his horse another, his hat a third, his whip a fourth, hisspectacles a fifth; in fact, he was scattered all over. In an instant helay the centre of a circle, kicking on his back like a lively turtle.

  'Oh! I'm kilt!' he roared, striking out as if he was swimming, or ratherfloating. 'I'm kilt!' he repeated. 'He's broken my back--he's broken mylegs--he's broken my ribs--he's broken my collar-bone--he's knocked myright eye into the heel of my left boot. Oh! will nobody catch him and killhim? Will nobody do for him? Will you see an English nobleman knockedabout like a ninepin?' added his lordship, scrambling up to go in pursuitof Mr. Sponge himself, exclaiming, as he stood shaking his fist at him,'Rot ye, sir! hangin's too good for ye! you should be condemned to hunt inBerwickshire the rest of your life!'