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Sporting Society; or, Sporting Chat and Sporting Memories, Vol. 1 (of 2)

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Title: Sporting Society; or, Sporting Chat and Sporting Memories, Vol. 1 (of 2)

Editor: Fox Russell

Illustrator: Randolph Caldecott


        
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Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SPORTING SOCIETY; OR, SPORTING CHAT AND SPORTING MEMORIES, VOL. 1 (OF 2) ***

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SPORTING SOCIETY


[Illustration: GOING TO COVER. By R. CALDECOTT.]




SPORTING SOCIETY

OR

_SPORTING CHAT AND SPORTING MEMORIES_

STORIES HUMOROUS AND CURIOUS; WRINKLES OF THE FIELD
AND THE RACE-COURSE; ANECDOTES OF THE STABLE AND
THE KENNEL; WITH NUMEROUS PRACTICAL
NOTES ON SHOOTING AND FISHING

FROM THE PEN OF

VARIOUS SPORTING CELEBRITIES AND
WELL-KNOWN WRITERS ON THE TURF AND THE CHASE

EDITED BY
FOX RUSSELL

Illustrations by Randolph Caldecott.

_IN TWO VOLUMES--VOL. I._

LONDON
BELLAIRS & CO.
1897




CONTENTS



                                                          PAGE

THE INFLUENCE OF FIELD SPORTS ON CHARACTER                   1
    By Sir COURTENAY BOYLE

OLD-FASHIONED ANGLING                                       21
    By Captain R. BIRD THOMPSON

PARTRIDGE DAY AS IT WAS AND AS IT IS                        36
    By "AN ELDERLY SPORTSMAN"

SIMPSON'S SNIPE                                             53
    By TERENCE LE SMITHE

PODGERS' POINTER                                            80
    By BEN B. BROWN

THE DEAD HEAT                                              101
    By "OLD CALABAR"

ONLY THE MARE                                              134
    By ALFRED E. T. WATSON

HUNTING IN THE MIDLANDS                                    155
    By T. H. S. ESCOTT

A MILITARY STEEPLECHASE                                    171
    By Captain R. BIRD THOMPSON

HOW I WON MY HANDICAP                                      181
    Told by the Winner

THE FIRST DAY OF THE SEASON AND ITS RESULTS                193
    By "SABRETACHE"

A DAY WITH THE DRAG                                        210
    By the EDITOR

STAG-HUNTING ON EXMOOR                                     221
    By Captain REDWAY

SPORT AMONGST THE MOUNTAINS                                237
    By "SARCELLE"

A BIRMINGHAM DOG SHOW                                      251
    By "OLD CALABAR"

HUNTINGCROP HALL                                           268
    By ALFRED E. T. WATSON

A DOG HUNT ON THE BERWYNS                                  286
    By G. CHRISTOPHER DAVIES

SOME ODD WAYS OF FISHING                                   298
    By G. CHRISTOPHER DAVIES

SHOOTING                                                   306
    By Captain R. BIRD THOMPSON

[Symbol: asterism] "THE DEAD HEAT," by "OLD CALABAR," was originally
contributed by the veteran sportsman to the pages of "BAILY'S
Magazine," and is here reproduced by the permission of the Proprietors.




THE INFLUENCE OF FIELD SPORTS ON CHARACTER


Field sports have been generally considered solely in the light of a
relaxation from the graver business of life, and have been justified by
writers on economics on the ground that some sort of release is
required from the imprisoned existence of the man of business, the
lawyer, or the politician. Apollo does not always bend his bow, it is
said, and timely dissipation is commendable even in the wise; therefore
by all means, let the sports which we English love be pursued within
legitimate bounds, and up to an extent not forbidden by weightier
considerations.

But there seems to be somewhat more in field sports than is contained
in this criticism. The influence _of_ character on the manner in which
sports are pursued is endless, and reciprocally the influence of field
sports _on_ character seems to deserve some attention. The best
narrator of schoolboy life of the present day has said that, varied as
are the characters of boys, so varied are their ways of facing or not
facing a "hilly," at football; and one of the greatest observers of
character in England has written a most instructive and amusing account
of the way in which men enjoy fox-hunting. If, therefore, a man's
character and his occupations and tastes exercise a mutual influence
upon each other, it follows that while men of different dispositions
pursue sports in different ways, the sports also which they do pursue
will tell considerably in the development of their natural character.

Now, the field sport which is perhaps pursued by a greater number of
Englishmen than any other, and which is most zealously admired by its
devotees, is fox-hunting. It is essentially English in its nature.

    "A fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange,
      'Tis likewise subject to the double danger
    Of falling first, and having in exchange
      Some pleasant laughter at the awkward stranger."

And it is this very falling which adds in some degree to its popularity;
_suave mari magno_, it is pleasant to know that your neighbour A.'s
horse, which he admires so much, has given him a fall at that very double
over which your little animal has carried you so safely; and it is
pleasant to feel yourself secure from the difficulties entailed on B, by
his desire to teach his four-year-old how to jump according to his
tastes. But apart from this delight--uncharitable if you like to call
it--which is felt at the hazards and failures of another, there is in
fox-hunting the keenest possible desire to overcome satisfactorily these
difficulties yourself. Not merely for the sake of explaining to an
after-dinner audience how you jumped that big place by the church or led
the field safely over the brook, though that element does enter in; but
from the strong delight which an Englishman seems by birthright to have
in surmounting any obstacles which are placed in his way. Put a man then
on a horse, and send him out hunting, and when he has had some experience
ask him what he has discovered of the requirements of his new pursuit,
and what is the lesson or influence of it. He will probably give you some
such answer as the following.

The first thing that is wanted by, and therefore encouraged by,
fox-hunting, is decision. He who hesitates is lost. No "craner" can get
well over a country. Directly the hounds begin to run, he who would
follow them must decide upon his course. Will he go through that gate,
or attempt that big fence, which has proved a stopper to the crowd?
there is no time to lose. The fence may necessitate a fall, the gate
must cause a loss of time, which shall it be? Or again, the hounds have
come to a check, the master and huntsmen are not up (in some countries
a very possible event), and it devolves upon the only man who is with
them to give them a cast. Where is it to be? here or there? There is no
time for thought, prompt and decided action alone succeeds. Or else the
loss of shoe or an unexpected fall has thrown you out, and you must
decide quickly in which direction you think the hounds are most likely
to have run. Experience, of course, tells considerably here as
everywhere; but quick decision and promptitude in adopting the course
decided on will be the surest means of attaining the wished for result
of finding yourself again in company with the hounds.

Further, fox-hunting teaches immensely self-dependence; every one is
far too much occupied with his own ideas and his own difficulties to be
able to give more than the most momentary attention to those of his
neighbour. If you seek advice or aid you will not get much from the
really zealous sportsman; you must trust to yourself, you must depend
on your own resources. "Go on, sir, or else let me come," is the sort
of encouragement which you are likely to get, if in doubt whether a
fence is practicable or a turn correct.

Thirdly, fox-hunting necessitates a combination of judgment and courage
removed from timidity on the one side and foolhardiness on the other.
The man who takes his horse continually over big places, for the sake
of doing that in which he hopes no one else will successfully imitate
him, is sure in the end to kill his horse or lose his chance of seeing
the run; and on the other hand, he who, when the hounds are running,
shirks an awkward fence or leaves his straight course to look for a
gate, is tolerably certain to find himself several fields behind at the
finish. "What sort of a man to hounds is Lord A----?" we once heard it
asked of a good judge. "Oh, a capital sportsman and rider," was the
answer; "never larks, but will go at a haystack if the hounds are
running."

It is partly from the necessity of self-dependence which the fox-hunter
feels, that his sport is open to the accusation that it tends to
selfishness. The true fox-hunter is alone in the midst of the crowd; he
has his own interests solely at heart--each for himself, is his motto,
and the pace is often too good for him to stop and help a neighbour in
a ditch, or catch a friend's runaway horse. He has no partner, he plays
no one's hand except his own. This of course only applies to the man
who goes out hunting, eager to have a run and keen to be in at the
death. If a man rides to the meet with a pretty cousin, and pilots her
for the first part of a run, he probably pays more attention to his
charge than to his own instincts of the chase; but he is not on this
occasion purely fox-hunting; and, if a true Nimrod, his passion for
sport will overcome his gallantry, and he will probably not be sorry
when his charge has left his protection, and he is free to ride where
his individual wishes and the exigencies of the hunt may lead him.

What a knowledge of country fox-hunting teaches! A man who hunts will,
at an emergency, be far better able than one who does not to choose a
course, and select a line, which will lead him right. Generals hold
that the topographical instinct of the fox-hunter is of considerable
advantage in the battle-field; and it is undoubtedly easy to imagine
circumstances in which a man accustomed to find his way to or from
hounds, in spite of every opposition and difficulty, will make use of
the power which he has acquired and be superior to the man who has not
had similar advantages.

Finally, fox-hunting encourages energy and "go." The sluggard or lazy
man never succeeds as a fox-hunter, and he who adopts the chase as an
amusement soon finds that he must lay aside all listlessness and
inertness if he would enjoy to the full the pleasures which he seeks. A
man who thinks a long ride to cover, or a jog home in a chill, dank
evening in November, a bore, will not do as a fox-hunter. The activity
which considers no distance too great, no day too bad for hunting, will
contribute first to the success of the sportsman, and ultimately to the
formation of the character of the man.

Fishing teaches perseverance. The man in _Punch_, who on Friday did not
know whether he had had good sport, because he only began on Wednesday
morning, is a caricature; but, like all caricatures, has an element of
truth in it. To succeed as an angler, whether of the kingly salmon, or
the diminutive gudgeon, an ardour is necessary which is not damped by
repeated want of success; and he who is hopeless because he has no
sport at first will never fully appreciate fishing. So too the tyro,
who catches his line in a rock, or twists it in an apparently
inexplicable manner in a tree, soon finds that steady patience will set
him free far sooner than impetuous vigour or ruthless strength. The
skilled angler does not abuse the weather or the water in impotent
despair, but makes the most of the resources which he has, and
patiently hopes an improvement therein.

Delicacy and gentleness are also taught by fishing. It is here
especially that--

    "Vis consili expers mole ruit suâ,
    Vim temperatam di quoque provehunt in majus."

Look at the thin link of gut and the slight rod with which the huge
trout or "never ending monster of a salmon" is to be caught. No brute
force will do there, every struggle of the prey must be met by
judicious yielding on the part of the captor, who watches carefully
every motion, and treats its weight by giving line, knowing at the same
time--none better--when the full force of the butt is to be
unflinchingly applied. Does not this sort of training have an effect on
character? Will not a man educated in fly-fishing find developed in him
the tendency to be patient, to be persevering, and to know how to adapt
himself to circumstances. Whatever be the fish he is playing, whatever
be his line, will he not know when to yield and when to hold fast?

But fishing like hunting is solitary. The zealot among fishermen will
generally prefer his own company to the society of lookers-on, whose
advice may worry him, and whose presence may spoil his sport. The
salmon-fisher does not make much of a companion of the gillie who goes
with him, and the trouter does best when absolutely alone; and nothing
is so apt to prove a tyrant, and an evil one, as the love of solitude.

On the other hand, the angler is always under the influence, and able
to admire the beauties of nature. Whether he be upon the crag-bound
loch or by the sides of the laughing burn of highland countries, or
prefer the green banks of southern rivers, he can enjoy to the full the
many pleasures which existence alone presents to those who admire
nature. And all this exercises a softening influence on his character.
Read the works of those who write on fishing--Scrope, Walton, Davy, as
instances. Is there not a very gentle spirit breathing through them?
What is there rude or coarse or harsh in the true fisherman? Is he not
light and delicate, and do not his words and actions fall as softly as
his flies?

Shooting is of two kinds, which, without incorrectness, may be termed
wild and tame. Of tame shooting the tamest, in every sense of the word,
is pigeon-shooting; but as this is admittedly not sport, and as its
principal feature is that it is a medium for gambling, or, at least,
for the winning of money prizes or silver cups, it may be passed over
in a few words. It undoubtedly requires skill, and encourages rapidity
of eye and quickness of action; but its influence on character depends
solely on its essential selfishness, and the taint which it bears from
the "filthy" effect of "lucre."

Other tame shooting is battue shooting, where luxuriously clad men, who
have breakfasted at any hour between ten and twelve, and have been
driven to their coverts in a comfortable conveyance, stand in a
sheltered corner with cigarettes in their mouths, and shoot tame
pheasants and timid hares for about three hours and a half, varying the
entertainment by a hot lunch, and a short walk from beat to beat. Two
men stand behind each sportsman with breech-loaders of the quickest
action, and the only drawback to the gunner's satisfaction is that he
is obliged to waste a certain time between his shots in cocking the gun
which he has taken from his loader. This cannot but be enervating in
its influence. Everything, except the merest action of pointing the
piece and pulling the trigger, is done for you. You are conveyed
probably to the very place where you are to stand; the game is driven
right up to you; what you shoot is picked up for you; your gun itself
is loaded by other hands; you have no difficulty in finding your prey;
you have no satisfaction in outwitting the wiliness of bird or beast;
you have nothing whatever except the pleasure--minimised by constant
repetition--of bringing down a "rocketter," or stopping a rabbit going
full speed across a ride.

The moral of this is that it is not necessary to do anything for
yourself, that some one will do everything for you, probably better
than you would, and that all you have to do is to leave everything to
some person whom you trust. Or, again, it is, get the greatest amount
of effect with the least possible personal exertion. Stand still, and
opportunities will come to you like pheasants--all you have to do is to
knock them over.

But it is not so with wild-shooting. Not so with the man, who, with the
greatest difficulty, and after studying every available means of
approach, has got within range of the lordly stag, and hears the dull
thud which tells him his bullet has not missed its mark. Nor with him,
who, after a hurried breakfast, climbs hill after hill in pursuit of
the russet grouse, or mounts to the top of a craggy ridge in search of
the snowy ptarmigan. Not so either with him, who traverses every bit of
marshy ground along a low bottom, and is thoroughly gratified, if, at
the end of a long day, he has bagged a few snipe; nor with him, who,
despite cold and gloom and wet, has at last drawn his punt within
distance of a flock of wild duck. In each of these, endurance and
energy is taught in its fullest degree. It is no slight strain on the
muscles and lungs to follow Ronald in his varied course, in which he
emulates alternately the movements of the hare, the crab, and the
snake; and it is no slight trial of patience to find, after all your
care, all your wearisome stalk, that some unobserved hind, or unlucky
grouse, has frightened your prey and rendered your toil vain. But,
_en avant_, do not despair, try again, walk your long walk, crawl
your difficult crawl once more, and then, your perseverance rewarded by
a royal head, agree that deer-stalking is calculated to develop a
character which overcomes all difficulties, and goes on in spite of
many failures.

The same obstinate determination which is found in this, the _beau
ideal_ of all shooting, is found similarly in shooting of other
kinds; and it is a question whether to the endurance inculcated by this
pursuit may not be attributed that part of an Englishman's character
which made the Peninsular heroes "never know when they were licked."

It is objected by foreigners to many of our national sports that they
involve great disregard for animal life. "Let us go out and kill
something," they say, is the exhortation of an Englishman to his friend
when they wish to amuse themselves. Sport consists, they hold, in
slaughter; sport therefore is cruel, and teaches contempt for the
feelings of creatures lower than ourselves in the scale of existence. I
do not wish to enter into this question, which has been a source of
considerable controversy; but I would say three things in reference to
it. First, that it is difficult to answer the question, Why should man
be an exception to the rule of instinct--undoubtedly prevalent
throughout the world--which leads every animal to prey upon its
inferior? Secondly, that every possible arrangement is made by man for
the comfort and safety of his prey--salmon, foxes, pheasants or
stags--until the actual moment of capture, and that every fair chance
of escape is given to it; and thirdly, that whatever the premises may
be, the conclusion remains, that there is no race so far removed from
carelessness of animal life and happiness as the English.

There are, however, other field sports which do not involve any
destruction of life, and which, from the general way in which they are
pursued, may fairly be called national. Foremost amongst these is
racing.

Were racing freed from any influence, other than that which
distinguished the races of past epochs, the desire of success; were the
prize a crown of parsley or of laurel, and the laudable desire of
victory the only inducement to contention, the effect on the men who
are devoted to it could not be otherwise than for good. In modern
racing, however, the element of pecuniary gain comes in so strongly,
that the worst points of the human character are stimulated by it
instead of the best, and the improvement of horseflesh and the breed of
horses is sacrificed to the temporary advantage of owners of horses. To
say, now, that a man is going on the turf, is to say, that he had
almost be better under it; and though a few exceptional cases are
found, in which men persistently keeping race horses have maintained
their independence and strict integrity in spite of the many
temptations with which they are assailed, yet, even they, have probably
done so at the sacrifice of openness of confidence and perhaps of
friendship. Trust no one is the motto of turfites. Keep the key of your
saddle-room yourself; let no one, not even your trainer, see your
weights. Pay your jockey the salary of a judge, and then have no
security that he will not deceive you. The state of the turf is like
the state of Corcyræa of old. Every man thinks, that unless he is
actually plotting against somebody, he is in danger of being plotted
against himself, and that the only safety he has lies in taking the
initiative in deceit. The sole object is to win--

                                      "Rem
    Si possis recte, si non quocunque modo rem."

Take care you are not cheated yourself, and make the most of any
knowledge of which you believe yourself to be the sole possessor.

What is the result of such a pursuit? what its moral? The destruction
of all generosity, all trust in others, all large-mindedness: and the
encouragement instead, of selfishness, of extravagance, and of
suspicion.

The man whose friendship was warm and generous, who would help his
friend to the limit of his powers, goes on the turf and becomes warped
and narrow, labouring, apparently, always under the suspicion, that
those whom he meets are trying, or wish to try, to get the better of
him, or share, in some way, the advantages which he hopes his cunning
has acquired for himself.

A thorough disregard for truth, too, is taught by horse-racing; not,
perhaps, instanced always by the affirmation of falsehood, but
negatively by the concealment or distortion of fact. An owner seldom
allows even his best friend to know the result of his secret trials,
and in some notable cases such results are kept habitually locked in
the breast of one man, who fears to have a confidant, and doubts the
integrity of everyone. Whether this is a state of things which can be
altered, either by diminishing the number of race-meetings in England,
or by discouraging or even putting down betting, I have no wish to
consider; but that the present condition of horse-racing and its
surroundings is very far removed from being a credit to the country, I
venture to affirm.

Cricket is another field sport, the popularity of which has rapidly
increased; partly from the entire harmlessness which characterises it,
and leads to the encouragement of it by schoolmasters and clergymen,
and partly from the fact that it is played in the open air, in fine
weather, and in the society of a number of companions. I do not propose
to inquire whether there is benefit in the general spreading of cricket
through the country, or whether it may not be said that it occupies too
much time and takes men away from other more advantageous occupations,
or whether the combination of amateur and professional skill which is
found in great matches is a good thing; but I wish, briefly, to point
out one or two points in human nature which seem to me to be developed
by cricket.

The first of these is hero-worship. The best player in a village club,
and the captain of a school eleven, if not for other reasons unusually
unpopular, is surrounded by a halo of glory which falls to the
successful in no other sport. Great things are expected of him, he is
looked upon with admiring eyes, and is indeed a great man. "Ah, it is
all very well," you hear, "but wait till Brown goes in, Smith and
Robinson are out, but wait till Brown appears, then you will see how we
shall beat you, bowl him out if you can." His right hand will atone for
the shortcomings of many smaller men, his prowess make up the
deficiency of his side. Or look at a match between All England and
twenty-two of Clodshire, watch the clodsmen between the innings, how
they throng wonderingly round the chiefs of the eleven. That's him,
that's Abel, wait till he takes the bat, then you'll "see summut like
play." Or go to the "Bat and Ball" after the match, when the eleven are
there, and see how their words are dwelt on by an admiring audience,
and their very looks and demeanour made much of as the deliberate
expressions of men great in their generation. Again, see the reception
at Kennington Oval of a "Surrey pet" or a popular amateur, or the way
in which "W. G." Grace is treated by the undemonstrative aristocracy of
"Lord's," and agree with me that cricket teaches hero-worship in its
full. What power the captain of the Eton or the Winchester eleven has,
what an influence over his fellows, not merely in the summer when his
deeds are before the public, but always from a memory of his prowess
with bat or ball. There is one awkward point about this; there are many
cricket clubs, and therefore many captains, and when two of these meet
a certain amount of difficulty arises in choosing which is the hero to
be worshipped. In a match where the best players of a district are
collected, and two or more good men, known in their own circle and
esteemed highly, there play together, who is to say which is the best;
who is to crown the real king of Brentford? Each considers himself
superior to the other, each remembers the plaudits of his own admirers,
forgets that it is possible that they may be prejudiced, and ignores
the reputation of his neighbour. The result is a jealousy among the
chieftains which is difficult to be overcome, and which shows itself
even in the best matches.

On the other hand, the effect of this hero-worship which I have
described, is to produce a harmony and unity of action consequent on
confidence in a leader which is peculiar to cricket. Watch a good
eleven, a good university or public school team, and see how thoroughly
they work together, how the whole eleven is like one machine, "point"
trusting "coverpoint," "short slip" knowing that if he cannot reach a
ball, "long slip" can, and the bowler feeling sure that his "head"
balls, if hit up, will be caught, if hit along the ground, will be
fielded. Or see two good men batting, when every run is of importance,
how they trust one another's judgment as to the possibility of running,
how thoroughly they act in unison. Such training as this teaches
greatly a combination of purpose and of action, and a confidence in the
judgment of one's colleagues which must be advantageous.

The good cricketer is obedient to his captain, does what he is told,
and does not grumble if he thinks his skill underrated: the tyro, proud
of his own prowess, will indeed be cross if he is not made enough of,
or is sent in last; but the good player, who really knows the game,
sees that one leader is enough, and obeys his orders accordingly.

There are other lessons taught by cricket, such as caution by batting,
patience and care by bowling, and energy by fielding; but I have no
space to dwell on these, as I wish to examine very briefly one more
sport, which, though hardly national, is yet much loved by the
considerable number who do pursue it. Boating is seen in its glory at
the universities or in some of the suburbs of London which are situated
on the Thames. It is also practised in some of the northern towns,
especially Newcastle, where the Tynesiders have long enjoyed a great
reputation.

By boating, I do not mean going out in a large tub, and sitting under
an awning, being pulled by a couple of paid men or drawn by an
unfortunate horse, but boat-racing, for prizes or for honour. The
Oxford and Cambridge race has done more than anything to make this
sport popular, and the thousands who applaud the conquerors, reward
sufficiently the exertions which have been necessary to make the
victory possible.

The chief lesson which rowing teaches is self denial. The university
oar, or the member of the champion crew at Henley, has to give up many
pleasures, and deny himself many luxuries, before he is in a fit state
to row with honour to himself and his club; and though in the
dramatist's excited imagination the stroke-oar of an Oxford eight may
spend days and nights immediately before the race, in the society of a
Formosa, such is not the case in real life. There must be no pleasant
chats over a social pipe for the rowing man, no dinners at the Mitre or
the Bull, no _recherché_ breakfasts with his friends; the routine
of training must be strictly observed, and everything must give way to
the paramount necessity of putting on muscle. In the race itself, too,
what a desperate strain there is on the powers! How many times has some
sobbing oarsman felt that nature must succumb to the tremendous demand
made on her, that he can go no further; and then has come the thought
that others are concerned besides himself, that the honour of his
university or his club are at stake, which has lent a new stimulus and
made possible that final spurt which results in victory.

The habits taught by rowing, whether during training or after the race
has commenced, lead to regularity of life, to abstemiousness, and to
the avoidance of unwholesome tastes, and their effect is seen long
after the desire for aquatic glory have passed away.

Such are some of the most prominent influences of English field sports,
and as long as amusements requiring such energy, such physical or
mental activity, and such endurance as fox-hunting, stalking, and
cricket, are popular, there is little fear of the manly character of
the English nation deteriorating, or its indomitable determination
being weakened.




OLD-FASHIONED ANGLING


Angling is, I think, one of the most popular of British field sports;
certainly, for one book written about any other kind, there must be
half-a-dozen on the subject of fishing. I met lately with a most
amusing old book on the "Art of Angling," published in 1801; and
illustrated with very quaint old wood engravings of both fresh and sea
water fish. It commences with a long anatomical and physiological
description of fish, giving an account of their habits, method of
feeding, &c. For this last the author draws considerably on his own
imagination. For instance, he declares that mussels and oysters open
their shells for the purpose of catching crabs, closing them when one
creeps in, and thus securing their prey. The oyster also is declared to
change sides with each tide, lying with the flat shell uppermost one
time, and the convex the next. After this the author goes regularly
through the alphabet, treating everything connected with fresh-water
angling under its respective initial letter.

I suppose that at this time there were few, if any tackle shops, for
most elaborate directions are given for making lines. These were to be
of horse hair, and twisted in a "twisting instrument," whatever that
was. The hair was to be with the top of one to the tail of the other,
so that every part might be equally strong, and turned slowly, so as to
allow it "to bed" properly; the different lengths were to be tied
together either "by a water knot, or Dutch knot, or a weaver's." The
line was to taper, beginning with three hairs down to a single one,
where the hook was whipped on.

The rod, as a matter of the greatest importance, is duly treated. The
wood was to be procured between the middle of November and Christmas
Day; the stock or butt to be made of ground hazel, ground ash, or
ground willow, not more than two or three feet long. The wood chosen to
be that which shot directly from the ground--not from any stump--and
every joint beyond was to taper to a top made preferably of hazel,
though yew, crab, or blackthorn might be used. If it had any knots or
excrescences, which were to be avoided if possible, they must be
removed with a sharp knife. Five or six inches of the top were to be
cut off, and a small piece of round, smooth, taper whalebone spliced on
with silk and cobbler's wax, and the whole finished with a strong noose
of hair to fasten the line to. This was for an ordinary rod; the best
sort was made as follows:--A white deal or fir board, thick, free from
knots, and seven to eight feet long, was to be procured, and a
dexterous joiner was to divide this with his saw into several breadths;
then with a plane to shoot them round, smooth, and rush-grown or taper.
One of these would form the bottom of the rod, seven or eight feet long
in the piece. To this was fastened a hazel six or seven feet long,
proportioned to the fir; this also rush-grown, and it might consist of
two or three pieces, to the top of which a piece of yew was to be fixed
about two feet long--round, smooth, and taper; and, finally, a piece of
round whalebone, five or six inches long. Some rings or eyes were to be
placed on the rod in such a manner that when you laid your eye to one,
you could see through all the rest. A wheel or winch must be fixed on,
about a foot from the end of the rod, and, as a finish, a feather
dipped in _aqua fortis_ was passed over it, so as to make it a pure
cinnamon colour. "This," the author adds, "will be a curious rod if
artificially worked!"

The subject of fly-making, and how and when to use flies, is treated
most exhaustively--no less than twenty-four pages being devoted to the
subject. The materials named for fly-dressing are very good indeed, and
very much the same as used now; but when the author tries to explain
the _actual_ method of using them he utterly fails. Anyone who
attempted to tie flies in the way explained would produce most
extraordinary specimens.

The author has taken very great pains, not only in naming the flies to
be used each month, but the actual time of day for them, and the hours
between which they must be used. Worms for bait are described and named
with great exactness, and the best way to catch and keep them, also how
best to scour them previous to use. I think, however, the method
recommended for scouring one kind would be too much for any but a
_very_ enthusiastic angler--namely, to put them in a woollen bag, and
keep them in your waistcoat pocket. Few persons could stand that, I
think.

Many recipes for different sorts of pastes are given, but it is hard to
believe that any fish would take them--"bean flour, the tenderest part
of a kitten's leg, wax and suet beaten together in a mortar," scarcely
sounds alluring; neither does a mixture of "fat old cheese (the
strongest rennet), suet, and turmeric," appear to be very nice. To any
of these pastes you may add "assafoetida, oil of polypody of the oak,
oil of ivy, or oil of Peter." Well, I do not suppose that they would
make much difference.

A great number of recipes for unguents, to smear over the worms used so
as to make them more attractive, are given; and most extraordinary they
are:--assafoetida, three drachms; camphire, one drachm; Venice
turpentine, one drachm; beaten up with oils of lavender and camomile,
is one recipe. Another is, "mulberry juice, hedgehog's fat, oil of
water-lilies and oil of pennyroyal," mixed together; but the most
elaborate one is as follows:--"Take the oils of camomile, lavender, and
aniseed, of each a quarter of an ounce; heron's grease and the best of
assafoetida, each two drachms; two scruples of cummin seed finely
beaten to powder; Venice turpentine, camphire, and galbanum, of each a
drachm; add two grains of civet and make into an unguent. This must be
kept close in a glazed earthenware pot, or it loses much of its virtue;
anoint your line with it and your expectation will be abundantly
answered. Some anglers, however, place more confidence in a judicious
choice of baits and a proper management of them, than in the most
celebrated unguents." I think the concluding paragraph is delightful. I
suppose it did at length dawn on the author's mind that people might
object to carrying about such hideously stinking compositions.

The angler is told that "his apparel must not be of a light or shining
colour, but of a dark brown, fitting closely to the body, so as not to
fright the fish away." The impediments to our anglers' recreation are
named. "The fault may be occasioned by his tackle, as when his lines or
hooks are too large, when his bait is dead or decaying. If he angles at
a wrong time of day, when the fish are not in the humour of taking his
bait. If the fish have been frightened by him or with his shadow. If
the weather be too cold. If the weather be too hot. If it rains much or
fast. If it hails or snows. If it be tempestuous. If the wind blows
high or be in the east or north. Want of patience and the want of a
proper assortment of baits." Anglers are also warned "never to fish in
any water that is not common without leave of the owner, which is
seldom denied to any but those that do not deserve it." Another
direction is given that would greatly horrify any Blue Ribbon army man
who might see it, namely, "if at any time, you happen to be over-heated
with walking or other exercise, you must avoid small liquors as you
would poison, and rather take a glass of brandy, the instantaneous
effects of which in cooling the body and quenching drought are
amazing."

The laws as to angling and fishing generally are quoted at considerable
length and seem most of them to be aimed at preventing immature fish
being taken and preserves damaged. The penalties did not err on the
side of clemency. By 5th Elizabeth, destroying any dam of any pond,
moat or stew, &c., with intent to take the fish, was punished with
three months' imprisonment and to be bound to good behaviour for seven
years after; also by 21st Elizabeth, "no servant shall be questioned
for killing a trespasser within his master's liberty who will not
yield; if not done out of former malice. Yet if the trespasser kills
any such servant it is murder."

I fancy the following, if carried out now, would rather astonish many
fish dealers in the city of London:--"Those that sell, offer, or expose
to sale or exchange for any other goods, bret or turbot under sixteen
inches long; brill or pearl under fourteen; codlin twelve; whiting six;
bass and mullet twelve; sole, plaice, and dab eight; and flounder
seven, from their eyes to the utmost extent of the tail; are liable to
forfeit twenty shillings, by distress, or to be sent to hard labour for
not less than six or more than fourteen days, and to be _whipped_." I
suppose most, if not all, of these enactments are now repealed, but if
not, and they were enforced, a considerable sensation would be created
by them.

One paragraph is very remarkable, as showing that over ninety years
ago, the same views were promulgated, relating to the profit that might
be obtained from fish in ponds, as have been brought forward in the
_Times_ and other papers during recent years. Our author says: "It
is surprising that, considering the benefit which may accrue from
making ponds and keeping of fish, it is not more generally put in
practice. For, besides furnishing the table and raising money, the land
would be vastly improved and be worth forty shillings an acre; four
acres converted into a pond will return every year a thousand fed carp
from the least size to fourteen or fifteen inches long, besides pike,
perch, tench, and other fish. The carp alone may be reckoned to bring
one with another, sixpence, ninepence, or perhaps twelvepence apiece,
amounting at the lowest rate to twenty-five pounds, and at the highest
to fifty, which would be a very considerable as well as useful
improvement." Exactly; this has been written and pointed out in the
papers year after year.

There are wood-cuts of every fish and full directions how to angle for
them. For pike, trolling, live baiting, fishing with frogs, are all
lengthily described; and also a curious sort of spinning, the motion
being caused by cutting off one of the fins close to the gills and
another behind the vent on the contrary side. I am sorry to say the
author winds up by full directions for snaring and snatching.

It seems curious to be told that good places for roach fishing are by
Blackfriars, Westminster and Chelsea Bridges, or by the piles at London
Bridge; but that the best way by far was to go below the bridges and
fasten your boat to the "stern of any collier or other vessel whose
bottom was dirty with weeds," to angle there, as "you would not fail to
catch many roach, and those very fine ones." The sailors on board
colliers must have been a very different set in those days from what
they are now. I fancy anyone trying to tie his boat to the stern of a
collier, whether for fishing or any other purpose, would have a pretty
hot time of it. The Thames, of course, is mentioned as one of the
rivers where salmon were caught, though the localities are not named.
Exact particulars are given for fishing for eels, but in those days
they must have been a very amiable sort of fish, not at all like the
obstinate and perverse creatures they are now, if they allowed
themselves to be caught by sniggling in the way mentioned. You were to
"get a strong line of silk and a small hook bated with a lob worm; next
get a short stick with a cleft in it, and put the line into it near the
bait; then thrust it into such holes as you suppose him to lurk in. If
he is there, it is great odds that he will take it." The stick was then
to be detached from the line and the eel allowed to gorge the bait. You
were not to try and draw him out hastily, but to give him time to tire
himself out by pulling. All I can say is, that if anyone ever managed
to get an eel out in this way he must have had an uncommon share of
luck. My own experience shows me that when an eel gorges your bait and
gets into his hole, it is quite hopeless to attempt to get him out, and
the only plan is to pull until something gives way, and that is never
the eel, but usually your hook, and sometimes the line.

Our author having given every kind of advice and direction about
angling, adds the following admonition:--"Remember that the wit and
invention of mankind were bestowed for other purposes than to deceive
silly fish, and that, however delightful angling may be, it ceases to
be innocent when used otherwise than as a mere recreation"; and he
winds up all he has to say about fresh-water angling thus:--"The editor
having gone through the English alphabet, takes the liberty to tell
gentlemen that the best way to secure fish is to transport poachers." A
very wise piece of advice, no doubt much acted on in those days.

In the second part of the book, devoted to sea fish, no directions are
given for fishing, but merely descriptions of them, and very curious
some of these are. We are told of dolphins, that "they sleep with their
snouts out of water," and that "some have affirmed that they have heard
them snore; they will live three days out of water, during which time
they sigh in so mournful a manner as to affect those with concern, who
are not used to hear them."

Another fish, the "sea-wolf, taken off Heligoland, is a very voracious
animal, and well furnished with dreadful teeth. They are so hard that
if he bites the fluke of an anchor you may hear the sound and see the
impression of his teeth." Certainly the engraving of it makes it an
awful-looking thing, with a body like a codfish and an enormous head,
with a huge mouth full of teeth like spikes. When the herring fishery
is mentioned, it is curious that the author gives a full account of the
Dutch fishery but passes over the English with a very brief notice. The
account of the former is remarkable. Their vessels were a kind of
barque called a buss, from forty-five to sixty tons burden, carrying
two or three small cannon; none were allowed to steer out of port
without a convoy unless they carried twenty pieces of cannon amongst
them all. What can have been the use of this regulation I cannot
imagine. A pirate would never attack a fishing-boat, and against a
vessel of war they would have been useless. The regulations for fishing
were very distinct. No man was to cast his net within 100 fathoms of
another's boat; whilst the nets were cast, a light was to be left in
the stern; if a boat was by any accident obliged to leave off fishing,
the light was to be thrown into the sea, and when the greater part of
the fleet left off fishing and cast anchor, the rest were to do the
same.

Of the English fishery, the date of its commencement, the size of the
nets and the names of the different sorts of herrings are merely given;
these names are very curious, I wonder whether they are known on the
coast now. Six sorts are given,--the Fat Herring, the largest and best;
the Meat Herring, large, but not so thick as the first; the Night
Herring, a middle-sized one; the Pluck, which has been hurt in the net;
the Shotten Herring, which has lost its spawn; and the Copshen, which
by some accident or other has been deprived of its head. When the whale
fishery is mentioned, here too the description given relates entirely
to the Dutch. As to the English it only says that in 1728 the South Sea
Company began to work it with pretty good success at first, but that it
dwindled away until 1740, when Parliament thought fit to give greater
encouragement to it. The discipline in the Dutch whale fleet seems to
have been very good; the following are some of the standing
regulations:--In case a vessel was wrecked and the crew saved, the
first vessel they met with was to take them in and the second half of
those from the first, but were not obliged to take in any of the cargo;
but if any goods taken out of such vessel are absolutely relinquished
and another ship finds and takes them, the captain was to be
accountable to the owner of the wrecked ship for one-half clear of all
expenses. If the crew deserted any wrecked vessel, they would have no
claim to any of the effects saved, but the whole would go to the
proprietor. However, if present when the effects were saved and they
assisted therein, they would have one-fourth. That if a person piked a
fish on the ice, it was his own so long as he left anyone with it, but
the minute he left it, the fish became the property of the first
captain that came along. If it was fastened to the shore by an anchor
or rope, though left alone it belonged to its first captor. If any man
was maimed or wounded in the Service, the Commissioners of the Fishery
were to procure him reasonable satisfaction, to which the whole fleet
were to contribute. They likewise agreed to attend prayers morning and
evening, on pain of a forfeit at the discretion of the captain; not to
get drunk or draw their knives on forfeiture of half their wages, nor
fight on forfeiture of the whole. They were not to lay wagers on the
good or ill-success of the fishing, nor buy or sell with the condition
of taking one or more fish on the penalty of twenty-five florins. They
were likewise to rest satisfied with the provisions allowed them and
never to light candle, fire, or match, without the captain's leave on
the like penalty. These regulations were read out before the voyage
commenced and the crew were then called over to receive the customary
gratuity before setting out and were promised another on return in
proportion to the success of the voyage. The vessels went north leaving
Iceland on the left, to parallel 75°, but some, the author says,
ventured as far as 80° or 82°. I fancy he had rather vague ideas on the
subject of North latitude, as it was not until 1827 that Sir E. Parry
reached 82°, the farthest point north ever attained up to that time.

Amongst other fish "stock fish" is mentioned, which is described as
"cod fish caught in the North of Norway by fishermen who cut holes in
the ice for the purpose. On hooking one, as soon as they pulled it out,
it was opened, cleaned, and then thrown on the rocks where it froze and
became as hard as a deal board, and never to be dissolved. This the
sailors beat to pieces, often calling it fresh fish, though it may have
been kept seven years and worms have eaten holes in it." But if the
letter-press is curious, the engravings with which the book is
illustrated are still quainter. The fish, whether minnows or salmon,
reach the same length; the only difference being made in their breadth,
even the whale is merely represented as rather thicker and with two
little men with axes in their hands walking on it. The author
undoubtedly took great pains in compiling his work, and in spite of all
eccentricities there are many hints and suggestions that are useful
even nowadays.




PARTRIDGE DAY AS IT WAS AND AS IT IS

BY AN ELDERLY SPORTSMAN


The world advances--good. Having accepted which tenet, it would be
unreasonable to deny that the pleasures and indulgences of the world
advance also. Luxury is one of the pleasures and indulgences of the
world. Therefore luxury advances. The syllogism is complete and sound;
there is fault in neither major nor minor premiss; and we have
therefore arrived at the ultimate conclusion that luxury is on the
move--that is, has increased. I have seldom come across a more perfect
illustration of my argument than in the early days of this month of
September. I am not an old fogey; I do not set up pretensions to a
claim for talking, with a kind of accompanying sigh, of the days "when
I was a boy," when "we managed things so much better," &c., &c. Yet
perhaps I am not exactly middle-aged either, and can at all events look
sufficiently far back to note a material change in the manner in which
old September is ushered in now as compared with its reception some
years ago. There are probably few, who, if lacking experience of its
pleasures, can duly appreciate the ardour with which a sportsman looks
forward to the "glorious first." But let the appreciative observer note
how manifestly that ardour has of late years abated. It has been my
frequent custom ere autumn has made her final curtsey, to take up my
quarters at the country house of a certain relative, and witness the
unprovoked assault on, and reckless massacre of divers unoffending
partridges in the ensuing month. The relative referred to is an elderly
gentleman, and, in addition to the possession of lands of his own, and
liberties to shoot over those of other people, is also the happy father
of three stalwart sons, not to mention the complementary portion of the
family with whom at present I have nothing to do. These three stalwart
sons, beknown to me as mere brats, I have watched grow up with some
interest, and that not only as regards their moral and intellectual
training, but also as regards the physical culture of their frames, and
the sporting bent of their mind. The youngsters were always fond of me.
I have always been their _fidus Achates_, in their adventures by land
and water, from teaching them to swim and row, down to setting night
lines for eels, or traps for rats. Well do I recollect arriving, on the
evening of the 31st of August, some years ago, at the old place in
Lincolnshire, and finding all three in a state of wild exuberance of
spirits in anticipation of the morrow's sport; Jack, the eldest, just
then promoted to a gun of his own, of which he was enormously proud,
and the other two contenting themselves with the exciting prospect of
plodding after us the whole day in the hopes of being allowed to let
off our charges at its conclusion. Everybody was eager enough then,
and the Squire after an evening spent--much to the disgust of the
ladies--in discussing the all-engrossing topic of "the birds," sends
us off early to bed, that we may all be up betimes in the morning.

We wake at seven, or rather are awoke, for the boys have been up since
five, "chumming" (I know no word so appropriate) with the keepers; and
even the Squire himself overhead I have heard stamping across his room
to look out at the weather several times since four o'clock. We are
awoke, then, at seven, and ere we have had time to take that fatal
turn, the sure forerunner of a second sleep, a knock, or rather a
thunderclap, is heard on the outer panels of the door, and Uncle Sam
(they always call me Uncle Sam, though I am not their uncle, and my
name is not Samuel) is summoned to "look sharp, and dress." Too
cognizant of the fact that Uncle Sam's only chance of peace is to obey,
we splash into our tub forthwith, encase our person in an old velveteen
and gaiters, and having gulped our coffee and hastily devoured our
toast, find ourself at nine o'clock standing on the hall steps, and
comparing guns with Jack, previous to a start for the arable. Two
keepers, a brace of perfect pointers, and a retriever, are awaiting,
even at that hour, impatiently, our departure for the scene of action.

Two miles' walk in the soft September air serves to brace our nerves
for the work before us; and the head keeper and the Squire having
conferred together like two generals, on our arrival at the seat of
war, we at length find ourselves placed--I should perhaps rather say
marshalled--in the turnips and ready for the fray. What a picture it
is! how truly English! each sportsman's eye glistening with excitement
and pleasure, as he poises his gun, each in his own readiest manner and
favourite position, the Squire casting his eye along the line with the
careful scrutiny of a field-marshal examining his forces previous to a
final and decisive struggle; the two pointers, too well disciplined to
show their ardour in gestures, standing mute behind the keeper; Jack
with his gun full-cocked and ready to fire almost before the quarry is
started; and his two brothers bursting with excitement, talking in
hurried and ceaseless whispers behind the back of Uncle Sam, bearing no
distant resemblance, as far as their half-checked ardour is concerned,
to the brace of pointers behind the keeper. But there is no time for
indulging in reverie as to the scene; a low "Hold up, then!" is heard
from the head-keeper, the two graceful dogs bound forward, the line
advances, and the action has commenced. A rabbit starts from under
Jack's feet: Bang!--and the shot enters a turnip, a yard behind the
little white stern hopping and popping to his burrow, despite the
reiterated assurances of Master Jack that he is hit, and who forgets to
reload accordingly. "Hold up!" to the crouching pointers, and away we
move again, watching the graceful movements of the dogs as they work
the field before us. Rake, a young dog in his first season, is breaking
a little too much ahead; but ere the keeper's "Gently, boy!" had
reached him, he has suddenly pulled up, and, with tail stiff and leg
up, is standing, motionless as a statue, over a covey. We advance, in
the highest excitement:--whirr! goes bird after bird almost singly; and
our first covey of the season leaves two brace and a half on the field.
One o'clock comes; we have steadily beaten turnips and stubble, clover
and mustard, and we spy a man with a donkey and panniers on the brow of
the hill in front of us. We beat up to him, bagging a hare and a single
bird on our way, and during the half-hour that is allowed us for our
bread and cheese and one glass of sherry, we enjoy to our heart's
content the large delights of loosing our tongues, after several hours'
rigid silence. But "time is up," and we are again on the move till six;
we are tired, but we don't know it; we are hungry and thirsty, but we
feel not their pangs, till, with our five-and-twenty brace behind us in
the bags, we strike across the park on our homeward journey. Uncle
Sam's gun is yielded up to Master Tom to let off the charge with the
shot drawn; but he manages surreptitiously to obtain our shot-flask,
and joins us on the hall steps with a dead rabbit, somewhat mauled,
however, from the young rascal's having fired at it at ten paces. We
sit down to dinner in high good-humour:--who is not, after a good day?
We defend our sport before the ladies from the charge of cruelty, and
retire to roost so tired that we take the precaution to lock our door,
to prevent the too early and too sure incursion of the young Visigoths
in the morning. Alas! for the days that are no more. Seven or eight
years have passed since that pleasant day, and Downcharge Hall again
welcomes Uncle Sam on the evening of the 31st, under its hospitable
roof; I find the boys all grown into young men; Jack is a captain of
Hussars, Tom is a subaltern in the Engineers, and Dick has just left
Christ Church. They are still as fond as ever of Uncle Sam, though they
occasionally venture so far nowadays, as to offer an opinion adverse to
his on sporting matters, in which his word was formerly supreme. As I
descend to dinner, I pass Jack's room. Hailed by its tenant, of course.
I enter, and find him occupied, with care above his years, in the
adjustment of his spotless white necktie, two of which articles,
crumpled too much in the operation, are at present adorning the floor.
"Think of shooting to-morrow, Sam?" (The title of "uncle" has been
dropped since Jack first stroked his downy upper lip as a second
lieutenant). I stand aghast. Here is a young man, full of health and
vigour, on the evening of the 31st August, questioning a fellow-man,
who has just travelled some hundred miles and more to Downcharge Hall,
with his arm round his gun-case, as to his intention of shooting on the
1st of September. Entertaining a faint hope that, in the exuberance of
his youthful spirits, he may be chaffing his old relative, I gasp out
an affirmative, and, obeying the summons of the dinner-bell, descend
the stairs. There is a large party of guests, but dinner proceeds with
but one allusion to the morrow and that is from Dick, who exclaims, as
he fingers the delicate stem of his champagne glass, "By-the-by,
to-morrow will be the 1st." The piece of fowl I was that moment in the
act of swallowing stuck in my throat; my appetite was destroyed, and I
silently, but sorrowfully, resolved that for the future no prodigy
could have power to amaze me. Our guests stayed late, and at half-past
eleven o'clock, mindful of my early rising the next day, I began to
grow fidgetty. By twelve o'clock, however, they had all gone; and
having despatched the ladies of the house to bed, my hand was already
grasping my bed-candle, when Tom arrested my intention, bidding me, in
a voice of manifest astonishment at what he was pleased to call my
"early roost," to come and do a pipe or two first in Dick's room.
Labouring under the delusion that a quarter of an hour was about to be
devoted to arranging our sporting plans, I obeyed, and after two hours
in Dick's room, spent almost entirely in discussing the relative merits
and demerits of certain ladies and horses, found myself between the
sheets at last. Awaking with a start, in the morning, to discover it is
eight o'clock, I dress with all possible speed, haunted the while with
terrible pictures of impatient sportsmen below anathematizing my
tardiness as they wait breakfast for me. I hurry down stairs,--the
breakfast room is tenantless. My first impression is that they have
been unable to curb their sporting ardour, and have started without me.
Hearing a footstep on the gravel sweep without, I step through the open
casement, and confront a pretty dairymaid bringing in the milk and
cream for breakfast.

"Fine mornin', sir."

"Yes. Which way have they gone--can you tell me?"

"Same gait as ever, sir. Joe have druv 'em down agin the fenny pasture,
arter milkin' up hinder."

"Ah! but the gentlemen, not the cows."

"The gentlemen, is it? Maybe if ye look in their beds ye'll see 'em
this time o' day."

Heaving a mighty sigh, I leave the dairymaid, and stroll up and down
the garden, listening with increasing impatience to the distant call of
the partridges in the park. Nature at Downcharge Hall that morning was
at all events beautifully still; there was a slight mist, too,
gradually clearing off from the distance, which betokened very surely a
broiling day, and made me long the more to get our seven or eight brace
before the mid-day heat should come upon us. My longings and
reflections, however, were suddenly cut short by a pitying butler, who
had brought me out the _Times_, with the remark that "Master and the
young gentlemen seldom has their breakfasts before ten." This was
cheerful; however, I consoled myself with the paper, and just as I had
finished discovering who was born, married, or dead, and had commenced
reading the entreaties to return to afflicted initial letters, &c.,
&c., Dick's terrier entered the room, the forerunner of his master,
who, remarking on my actually being an earlier bird than himself, was
followed, in the course of about twenty minutes, by the others.

"I suppose we shoot to-day: where shall we begin?" asks Tom.

"Oh! we will shoot up from Brinkhill," answers the Squire.

"Brinkhill--two miles;--must have a trap," says Jack.

The two-mile walk used to be part of the order of the day; it gave us a
little time for conversation, prohibited from its conclusion till
lunch; it braced one up, and made one, in sporting phraseology, "fit";
but nowadays a carriage is necessary, and the young Nimrod is unequal
to any fatigue beyond that which he must necessarily undergo in pursuit
of his game. However, we are late, so I can't object to it; and,
burning my throat in my hasty disposal of my second cup of coffee, I
rush upstairs to get ready my trusty Westley Richards, which, by the
way, is a muzzle-loader, yet does not take so long to load as to
require a man behind me with a second gun. Five minutes, and fully
equipped I re-enter the breakfast-room, where I am astonished to find
my "get-up" creates unfeigned amazement.

"What! ready now!" says Tom; "what's the use of being in such a
hurry?--let's do a pipe and a game of billiards first."

"Ah, by-the-by," adds Dick, "what time shall we start? Better have the
trap at twelve--quite early enough, eh?"

So Jack betakes himself to the newspaper; I am dragged off in disgust
to the billiard-room; and the Squire goes off to show old Jones, who is
staying here, all about the gardens, &c.

How I loathe the gardens from that moment!--how every shrub became a
bugbear, every flower a poisonous weed, to my jaundiced eye, as I
mentally abused my host for not turning out everybody sooner, and doing
things smarter! My temper is rapidly vanishing; I have been beaten in
two games by Tom, to whom I used formerly to allow fifteen out of
fifty; I am smoking a cigar of Dick's (a bad one I think it, of
course), when suddenly the sound of wheels breaks on my ear, and
rushing madly to my room again, I don my shot-belt, I pocket wads,
powder, and caps, shoulder my gun, and in two minutes am seated in the
elegant little double dog-cart, waiting in a broiling sun for these
tardy sportsmen. I have sat for full a quarter of an hour, when Jack
strolls out, and, in a voice as though nothing had or was about to
happen, exclaims--

"Hallo, Sam! are you ready? I must go and dress." And this to a man who
has been gaitered since half-past eight. At half-past twelve he
reappeared, dressed in magnificent apparel, the result of Poole's and
Anderson's united efforts, and examining, to the increase of my
impatience, the elaborate locks of a brand new breech-loader. Formerly,
we used to take care of that sort of thing the night before at the
latest. However, our horses are good ones, and Dick, who knows very
well how to handle them--about the only thing I can say for him--puts
them along in very neat form at a brisk pace to Brinkhill. This is all
very pleasant; and as we near the ground my spirits begin to rise
again. It takes us, however, at least twenty minutes to discuss which
is the most advantageous beat--a matter which used to be settled as we
came along; but I am at last on the move, and begin to forget the past
grievances, only hoping they won't strike work too early. It is the
same old field in which I so well remember Jack making his _debût_
and missing the rabbit; but I miss the eager faces of those days sadly;
it doesn't seem the same thing to me; half the pleasure of a thing,
after all, is in enjoying it in company; but that half is sadly marred
if the said company are cool in their enjoyment. The dogs, too, are
disgustingly wild now. Old Rake breaks fence and flushes our first
covey long out of gunshot, my disgust at which is further augmented by
one of the keepers, as wild as the dog, breaking line and starting a
hare, as remote as the partridges, by his loud imprecations after the
miscreant, who is utterly deaf alike to whistle, threats, and
entreaties. There is fault enough here; but it doesn't lie entirely
with the keeper; it is too evident there is an absence of the eye of
the master. If the Squire grows indifferent to their proceedings, he
can scarcely expect his dogs and keepers to be what they were; the
keeper gets lazy or dishonest, the dogs' training is neglected, and
by-and-by they become useless or worse than useless, and their services
are discarded. Now if there is one thing more than another which
enhances the pleasure of a day's partridge-shooting, it is to watch a
brace of well-trained pointers work a field. Why is it then--for
obviously it is so--that the use of dogs, and especially of setters and
pointers in the field, is gradually being discarded?

But to proceed. As soon as order is tolerably restored, we advance
again, and pretty steadily beat two or three fields, bagging, with an
unheard-of amount of missing, about two brace of birds. We are just
entering the next field, when the Brinkhill tenant rides up and asks us
all in to lunch. Ye gods, what a feast! Some years ago some bread and
cheese, and perhaps a couple of glasses of sherry under a hedge was
considered ample on these occasions. Now, however, I have before me an
elegant repast of ham and tongue, of fowls and lamb, of pies and fruit,
of beer and sherry, port and claret, such as would have shamed the
epicurean deities of heathen mythology quaffing ambrosial nectar on the
heights of Olympus. With a hopeless shudder I deposit my gun in a
corner of the room and take my seat. We breakfasted at ten, but the
"unwonted" exercise (alas! it should be so) has given the youngsters an
appetite, and their tongues are tied for ten minutes, before worthy Mr
Shorthorn, the tenant, produces a bottle of "that very fine old port"
he so wishes the Squire to taste. I am not exaggerating when I state
that lunch lasted a good hour. Then his pigs are inspected, and what
with the wine and the waiting, I can well foresee what will happen to
our sport: tongues will be loosed; misses will, if possible, increase;
and I feel convinced that the partridges will have little to fear from
us for this afternoon, at all events. However, we do manage at last to
get away by about half-past three or four o'clock, and commence beating
a very promising piece of stubble. I have just bagged a hare, and the
dogs have been reduced, by dint of much rating, into a state of
downcharge whilst I load, when something is heard galloping behind us,
and Dick, who had stayed behind, as we thought, to fill his
powder-flask, appears in the field trying the paces of the tenant's
young one. Although he is well behind the beat, the galloping horse
forms a disturbing element to the guns. Dick rides over the low fence
at the end, round the next field, and finally returns right in the way
of a shot I might have had at a landrail. I don't swear, because I
don't approve thereof, and, moreover, am moderate in my temper; but
this is indeed trying, and, to make matters worse, the fellow doesn't
appear in the least bit ashamed of himself, but quietly dismounts,
feels the legs of the colt carefully down, and, refusing to take his
gun from the keepers, remarks that he is tired of missing, and (to my
joy) shall go home. A prudent resolve, as he had fired at least twenty
or thirty shots without touching a feather, as it seemed to my heated
imagination; but the keeper, with a presence the late Duc de Morny
might have envied, urges him "not to give over yet; he might 'ave a
haccident and hit summut." Laughter is irresistible, but Dick's ardour
is not equal to trusting to this remote contingency, so he wends his
way homewards, for a wonder, on his own legs. The rest of us proceed
again, but the shooting is, if possible, worse than before lunch; and
as we enter the park again I ask, in a dejected tone of the head
keeper, "What is the bag?" "Seven brace, three hares, and one rabbit."
I turn away with a sigh, and mentally resolve to remove from my head,
in the solitude of my chamber, on my return, the hairs--the many
hairs--that must have turned grey during that terrible day; and I join
the rest to reseek the hall, a sadder and a sulkier man. We enter the
billiard-room at six, to find Dick engaged in a game of billiards with
his pretty cousin, Lucy Hazard--the dog! but feeling that he deserves
nothing at our hands, we break the _tête-à-tête_ and summon the other
ladies for a pool. Lucy has been chaffing Master Dick about "being such
a muff as to return so soon." Quite right--an uncommonly nice girl is
Miss Lucy, and with £50,000 of her own, too, they say. If I were ten
years younger, I think I would marry her (I am far too vain to doubt
her consent), and get some shooting of my own,--some shooting, sir,
conducted on my own principles: I don't care much for the Downcharge
Hall style of doing business. "C'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la
guerre," remarked a French general, as he levelled his glass at our
light squadrons charging through the bloody vale of Balaklava. "C'est
luxurieux, mais ce n'est pas le sport," remarks the writer of this
grumble, as he levels his pen at the sportsmen of Downcharge Hall and
all who may resemble them.




SIMPSON'S SNIPE


"Who is Mr Simpson?" asked my wife, tossing a letter across the
breakfast-table. This same little lady opens my correspondence with the
_sang-froid_ of a private secretary.

"Who is Mr Simpson?" she repeated. "If he is as big as his monogram, we
shall have to widen all the doors, and raise the ceilings, in order to
let him in."

The monogram referred to resembled a pyrotechnic device. It blazed in
all the colours of the rainbow, and twisted itself like the coloured
worsted in a young lady's first sampler.

"Simpson," I replied, in, I must confess, a tremulous sort of way, "is
a very nice fellow, and a capital shot."

"I perceive that you have asked him to shoot."

"Only for a day and a night, my dear."

"Only for a day and a night! And where is Willie to sleep, and where is
Blossie to sleep? You know the dear children are in the strangers'
rooms for change of air, and really I _must_ say it is very thoughtless
of you;" and my wife's _nez retroussé_ went up at a very acute angle,
whilst a general hardness of expression settled itself upon her
countenance, like a plaster cast.

I had a bad case. I had been dining with a friend, my friend Captain de
Britska. I had taken sherry with my soup, hock with my fish, champagne
with my entrée, and a nip of brandy before my claret. What I imbibed
after the Lafitte I scarcely remember. Mr Simpson was of the party, and
sat next to me. He forced a succession of cigars into my mouth, and
subsequently a mixture of tobacco, a special thing. (What smoker, by
the way, hasn't a special thing in the shape of a mixture? what
_gourmet_ has no special tip as regards salad-dressing?) We spoke of
shooting. He asked me if I had any. I replied in the affirmative,
expressing a hope that he would at some time or other practically
discuss that fact. Somehow I was led into a direct invitation, and this
was the outcome. I had committed myself beneath my friend's mahogany,
and under the influence of my friend's generous wine. I was in a
corner; and now, ye gods! I had to face Mrs Smithe. There are moments
when a man's wife is simply awful. Snugly entrenched behind the
unassailable line of defence, duty, and with such "Woolwich Infants" as
her children to hurl against you, which she does in a persistent
remorseless way, she is a terror. No man, be he as brave as Leonidas or
as cool as Sir Charles Coldstream, is proof against the partner of his
bosom when she is on the rampage; and, as I have already observed, Mrs
S. was "end on."

"Another change will do the children good, Maria," I observed.

"Yes, I suppose so. It will do Willie's cold good to sleep in your
dressing-room without a fire, won't it? and Blossie can have a bed made
up in the bath. Is this Mr Simpson married or single?"

_Hinc illæ lachrymæ._ I couldn't say. I never asked him.

"What does it matter?" I commenced, with a view to diplomatising.

"Yes, but it does," she interposed. "If he is a respectable married
man, which I very much doubt, he must have dear Willie's room."

"I am very sorry that I asked him at all, Maria; but as he has been
asked, and as I must drive over to meet him in a few minutes, for
Heaven's sake make the best of it."

"Oh, of course; I receive my instructions, and am to carry them out.
All the trouble falls upon me, while you drive off to the station
smoking a shilling cigar, when you know that every penny will be wanted
to send Willie to Eton."

I got out of it somehow. Not that Mrs S. was entirely pacified. She
still preserved an armed neutrality; yet even this concession was very
much to be coveted. She's a dear good little creature, but she has
fiery moods occasionally; and I ask you, my dear sir, is she one whit
the worse for it? How often does your good lady fly at _you_ during the
twenty-four hours? How often! The theme is painful. _Passons._

My stained-wood trap was brought round by my man-of-all-work, Billy
Doyle. Billy is a tight little "boy," over whose unusually large skull
some fifty summers' suns have passed, scorching away his shock hair,
and leaving only a few streaks, which he carefully plasters across his
bald pate till they resemble so many cracks upon the bottom of an
inverted china bowl. Billy is my factotum. He looks after my horse,
dogs, gun, rod, pipes, and clothes, with a view to the reversion of the
latter. He was reared, "man an' boy," on the estate, and is upon the
most familiar yet respectful terms with the whole family. Billy
continually lectures me, imparting his opinions upon all matters
appertaining to my affairs, as though he were some rich uncle whose
will in my favour was safely deposited with the family solicitor.

"We've twenty minutes to meet the train, Billy," I observed, giving the
reins a jerk.

"Is it for to ketch the tin-o'clock thrain from Dublin?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Begorra, ye've an hour! She's like yourself--she's always late."

"There's a gentleman coming down to spend the day and shoot," I said,
without noticing Billy's sarcasm.

"Shoot! Arrah, shoot what?"

"Why, snipe, plover--anything that may turn up."

"Be jabers, he'll have for to poach, thin."

"What do you mean, Billy?"

"Divvle resave the feather there is betune this an' Ballybann; they're
dhruv out av the cunthry."

"Nonsense, man. We'll get a snipe in Booker's fields."

"Ye will, av ye sind to Dublin for it."

I felt rather down in the mouth, for I had during the season given
unlimited permission to my surrounding neighbours to blaze away--a
privilege which had been used, if not abused, to the utmost limits.
Scarce a day passed that we were not under fire, and on several
occasions were in a state of siege, in consequence of a succession of
raids upon the rookeries adjoining the house.

"We can try Mr Pringle's woods, Billy."

"Yez had betther lave _thim_ alone, or the coroner 'ill be afther
havin' a job. Pringle wud shoot his father sooner nor he'd let a bird
be touched."

"This is very awkward," I muttered.

"Awkward! sorra a shurer shake in Chrisendom. It's crukkeder nor what
happened to ould Major Moriarty beyant at Sievenaculliagh, that me
father--may the heavens be his bed this day!--lived wud, man an' boy."

Billy was full of anecdote, and being anxious to pull my thoughts
together, I mechanically requested him to let me hear all about the
dilemma in which the gallant Major had found himself.

"Well, sir, th' ould Major was as dacent an ould gintleman as ever
swallied a glass o' sperrits, an' there was always lashins an' lavins
beyant at the house. If ye wor hungry it was yerself that was for
to blame, and if ye wor dhry, it wasn't be raisin av wantin' a
_golliogue_. Th' ould leddy herself was aiqual to the Major, an' a
hospitabler ould cupple didn't live the Shannon side o' Connaught.
Well, sir, wan mornin' a letther cums, sayin' that some frind was
comin' for to billet on thim.

"'Och, I'm bet!' says the Mrs Moriarty.

"'What's that yer sayin' at all at all?' says th' ould Major; 'who bet
ye?' says he.

"'Shure, here's Sir Timothy Blake, and Misther Bodkin Bushe, an' three
more comin',' says she, 'an' this is only Wednesday.'

"'Arrah, what the dickens has that for to say to it?' says the Major.

"'There's not as much fresh mate in the house as wud give a brequest to
a blackbird,' says she; 'an' they all ate fish av a Friday, an' how are
we for to get it at all at all? An' they'll be wantin' fish an' game.'

"Ye see, sir," said Billy, "there was little or no roads in thim ould
times, an' the carriers only crassed that way wanst a week."

"'We're hobbled, sure enough,' says the Major, 'we're hobbled, mam,'
says he, 'an' I wish they'd had manners to wait to be axed afore they'd
come into a man's house,' he says.

"'Couldn't ye shoot somethin'?' says Mrs Moriarty.

"'Shoot a haystack flyin', mam,' says the Major, for he was riz, an'
when he was riz the divvle cudn't hould him; 'what is there for to
shoot, barrin' a saygull? an' ye might as well be aitin' saw-dust.'

"'I seen three wild duck below on the pond,' she says.

"'Ye did on Tib's Eve!' says the Major.

"'Och, begorra, it's thruth I'm tellin' ye', says she; 'I seen thim
this very mornin', when I was comin' from mass--an' be the same token,'
says she, lukkin' out av the windy, 'there they are, rosy an' well.'

"'Thin upon my conscience, mam,' roared the Major, 'if I don't hit thim
I'll make them lave that!'

"So he ups an' loads an ould blundherbuss wud all soarts av
combusticles, an' down he creeps to the edge av the wather, and hides
hisself in some long grass, for the ducks was heddin' for him. Up they
cum; an' the minnit they wor within a cupple av perch he pulls the
thrigger as bould as a ram, whin by the hokey smut it hot him a welt in
the stummick that levelled him, an' med him feel as if tundher was
inside av him rumblin'. He roared millia murdher, for he thought he was
kilt; but howsomever he fell soft an' aisy, an' he put out his hand for
to see if he was knocked to bits behind, whin, begorra, he felt
somethin' soft an' warm. 'Arrah, what the puck is this?' sez he; an'
turnin' round, what was he sittin' on but an illigant Jack hare. 'Yer
cotch, _ma bouchal_,' sez he; 'an' yer as welkim as the flowers o'
May.'

"Wasn't that a twist o' luck, sir?" asked Billy pausing to take breath.

"Not a doubt of it. But what became of the ducks?"

"Troth, thin, ye'll hear. The Major dhropped two av thim wud the
combusticles in the blundherbuss, but th' ould mallard kep' floatin' on
the wather in a quare soart av a way, an' yellin' murdher. When the
Major kem nigh him, he seen that he was fastened like to somethin'
undher the wather; an' whin he cotch him, what do you think he found?
It's truth I'm tellin' ye, an' no lie: he found the ramrod, that he
neglected for to take out o' the gun, run right through th' ould
mallard. Half av it was in the mallard, an' be the hole in me coat, th'
other half was stuck in a lovely lump av a salmon; and the bould Major
cotch thim both. 'Now,' says he, 'come on, Sir Tim an the whole creel
of yez, who's afeard?' An' I'm just thinkin' sir," added Billy, as we
dashed into the railway yard, "that if ye don't get a slice av luck
like Major Moriarty's, yer frind might as well be on the Hill o'
Howth."

The force of Billy's remark riveted itself in my mind, and the idea of
asking a man so long a distance to shoot nothing was very little short
of insult. Mr Simpson arrived as we drove in, arrayed in an ulster just
imported from Inverness. His hat was new; his boots were new; his
gloves awfully new, yellow and stiff, and forcing his fingers very far
apart, as though his hands were wooden stretchers. His portmanteau,
solid leather, was brand new; the very purse from which he extracted a
new sixpence to tip the porter was of the same virgin type. He was
mistaken for a bridegroom, and the fair bride was eagerly sought for by
the expectant porter whilst removing a new rug from the compartment in
which Mr Simpson had been seated. To crown all this newness, his
gun-case, solid leather, had never seen the open air till this day, and
the iron which impressed upon it Mr Rigby's brand could scarcely have
had time to grow cold.

"Begorra, it's in the waxworks he ought for to be," muttered Billy
Doyle, grimly surveying him from head to foot.

Mr Simpson's thick moustache possessed a queer sort of curl, his nose
too, followed this pattern, so that his face somewhat resembled those
three legs which are impressed upon a Manx coin. His eyes were long
slits, with narrow lids, not unlike a cut in a kid glove: one of these
eyes he kept open by means of an eyeglass. This eyeglass was
perpetually dropping into his bosom and disappearing, never coming to
the surface when required, and only coming up to breathe after a
succession of prolonged and abortive dives.

"It's very cold," he exclaimed, grasping my hand, or rather
endeavouring to grasp it, for the new gloves would admit of no loving
contact.

"There's likker over beyant at the rifrishmint-bar," observed Billy,
whose invariable habit it was to cut into the conversation with such
comments or observations as suggested themselves to him at the moment.

Perceiving an inclination on the part of my guest to profit by the
hint, I interposed by informing him that the refreshment was of the
meanest possible character, in addition to its possessing a very
inflammatory tendency.

"Thrue for ye, sir. The sperrits is that sthrong that it wud desthroy
warts, or burn the paint off av a hall dure."

"That will do, Billy," I said, as Simpson's face bore silent tokens of
wonder at the garrulity of my retainer. "We don't require your opinion
at present."

"Och, that's hapes, as Missis Dooley remarked whin she swallird the
crab," said Billy very sulkily, as he mounted behind.

"How is our friend De Britska?" I asked.

"Oh, very well indeed. He quite envied me my trip. He says your
shooting is about the best thing in this part of the world."

"Oh, it's not bad," I replied, assuming an indifference that I was far
from participating in; "but there are times when I assure--ha, ha! it
may appear incredulous, that we cannot stir a single feather."

"Have you much snipe, Mr Smithe?"

"Sorra a wan," replied Billy.

"Your gamekeeper?" asked Simpson, jerking his head in the direction of
my retainer.

"My _factotum_. He is one of the family. A regular character, and I
trust you will make allowances for him."

"I love characters. Depend upon it we shall not fall out."

Simpson chatted very agreeably, and very small. He had read the _Irish
Times_ during the rail journey, and was master of the situation. Some
men take five shillings-worth out of a penny paper. This was one of
them. He had sucked it all in, and the day's news was coming out
through the pores of his skin. As a rule, such men are to be avoided.
The individual who persistently asks you "What news?" or "Is there
anything new to-day?" is a wooden-headed gossiping bore, who cannot
start an idea, and oils the machinery inside his skull with the
twopenny-halfpenny daily currency. Simpson spoke a great deal of the
army, quoted the various changes mentioned in that day's _Gazette_
with a vigour of memory that was perfectly astounding. Although
personally unknown to the countrymen around me, he seemed thoroughly
acquainted with their respective pedigrees, their intermarriages, their
rent-rolls, and in fact with their most private concerns; so that
before we reached our destination I knew considerably more of my
neighbours than I, or my father before me, had ever known.

His shooting experiences were of the most extensive and daring
character. He had tumbled tigers, stuck pigs, iced white bears, and
ostracised ostriches. He had been in the tiger's mouth, on the boar's
tusks, and in the arms of the bear. His detailed information on the
subject of firearms was worthy of a gunmaker's pet 'prentice.

"I've shot with Greener's patent central-fire choke-bore, and I
pronounce it a handy tool. Westley Richards has made some good
instruments, and Purdy's performances are crack. I've taken down one of
Rigby's with me, as I have some idea of experimentalising; Rigby is a
very safe maker. I expect to do some damage to-day, friend Smithe."

What a laughing-stock I should be, when this man unfolded the tale of
his being decoyed into the country by a fellow who bragged about his
preserves, upon which there wasn't a feather! Would I make a clean
breast of it? would I say that--

While this struggle was waging beneath my waistcoat, we arrived, and
there was nothing for it but to trust to luck and Billy Doyle.

When we alighted, I asked Simpson into the drawing-room, as his
bed-chamber had not yet been allotted to him. My wife was still sulky
and did not appear, so I had to discover her whereabouts.

"Simpson has arrived, my dear."

"I suppose so," very curtly.

"He is a very agreeable entertaining fellow."

"I suppose so," she snapped.

"Where have you decided on putting him?"

"In your dressing-room."

"My dressing-room?"

"Yes, your dressing-room. I wouldn't disturb the children for the
Prince of Wales."

Now this was very shabby of my wife. My dressing-room was my _sanctum
sanctorum_. There were my papers, letters, pipes, boots, knick-knacks,
all laid out with a bachelor's care, and each in its own particular
place. To erect a bedstead meant an utter disturbance of my effects,
which weeks could not repair, especially as regards my papers. I
expostulated.

"There is no use in talking," said my wife; "the bed is put up."

Tableau.

Whilst my guest was engaged in washing his hands before luncheon, I
held a conference with Billy Doyle with reference to the shooting, our
line of country, and the tactics necessary to be pursued.

"Me opinion is that he is a _gommoch_. He doesn't know much. Av he
cum down wud an old gun-case that was in the wars, I'd be peckened; but
wud sich a ginteel tool, ye needn't fret. We'll give him a walk,
anyhow. He'll get a bellyful that will heart scald him."

"But the honour of the country is at stake, Billy. I asked Mr Simpson
to shoot, promising him good sport, and surely _you_ are not going to
let him return to Dublin to give us a bad name."

This appeal to Billy's feelings was well timed. He knew every fence and
every nest in the barony, and it was with a view to putting things into
a proper training that I thus appealed to his better feelings.

Billy scratched his head.

"Begorra, he must have a bird if they're in it; but they're desperate
wild, and take no ind of decoyin'."

Simpson's politeness to my wife was unbounded. He professed himself
charmed to have the honour of making her acquaintance, took her in to
luncheon with as much tender care as though she had been a cracked bit
of very precious china ware; invited her to partake of everything on
the table, shoving the dishes under her chin, and advising her as to
what to eat, drink, and avoid. He narrated stories of noble families
with whom he was upon the most intimate terms, and assured my wife that
he was quite startled by her extraordinary likeness to Lady Sarah
Macwhirter; which so pleased Mrs S. that later on she informed me that
as Blossie was so much better, she thought it would be more polite to
give Mr Simpson the blue bedroom.

I found this ardent sportsman very much inclined to dally in my lady's
boudoir, in preference to taking the field, and I encouraged this
proclivity, in the hope of escaping the shooting altogether, and thus
save the credit of my so-called preserves. But here again I was doomed
to disappointment. Mrs S., who now began to become rather anxious about
the domestic arrangements, politely but firmly reminded him of the
object of his visit, and insisted upon our departing for the happy
hunting-grounds at once. And at length, when very reluctantly he rose
from the table, he helped himself to a stiff glass of brandy-and-water,
in order, as he stated, to "steady his hand."

I must confess that I was rather startled when he announced his
intention of shooting in his ulster. The idea of dragging this
long-tailed appendage across ditches and over bogs appeared _outré_,
especially as the pockets bulged very considerably, as though they were
loaded with woollen wraps; but I was silent in the presence of one who
had sought his quarry in the jungle, and shoved my old-fashioned idea
back into the fusty lumber-room of my thoughts. Billy Doyle awaited us
with the dogs at the stable gate. These faithful animals no sooner
perceived me than they set up an unlimited howling of delight; but
instead of bounding forward to meet me, as was their wont, they
suddenly stopped, as if struck by an invisible hand, and commenced to
set at Simpson.

This extraordinary conduct of these dogs--there are no better dogs in
Ireland--incensed Billy to fever heat.

"Arrah, what the puck are yez settin' at? Are yez mad or dhrunk? Whoop!
gelang ow a that, Feltram! Hush! away wud ye, Birdlime!"

"Take them away; take them away!" cried Simpson, very excitedly. "I
don't want them; I never shoot with dogs. Remove them, my man."

Billy caught Feltram, but Birdlime eluded his grasp; and having
released Feltram and captured Birdlime, the former remained at a dead
set, whilst the latter struggled with his captor, as though the lives
of both depended on the issue.

"May the divvle admire me," panted Billy, "but this bangs Banagher. Is
there a herrin' stirrin', or anything for to set the dogs this way?--it
bates me intirely."

I naturally turned to my guest, who looked as puzzled as I did myself.

"I have it!" he cried; "it's the blood of the sperm-whale that's
causing this."

"Arrah, how the blazes cud the blood av all the whales in Ireland make
thim shupayriour animals set as if the birds were foreninst them?"
demanded Billy, his arms akimbo.

"I will explain," said Simpson. "Last autumn I was up whaling off the
coast of Greenland. We struck a fine fish; and after playing him for
three-and-twenty hours, we got him aboard. Just as we were taking the
harpoon out, he made one despairing effort and spurted blood; a few
drops fell upon this coat, just here," pointing to the inside portion
of his right-hand cuff, "and I pledge you my veracity no dog can
withstand it. They invariably point; and I assure you, Smithe, you
could get up a drag hunt by simply walking across country in this
identical coat, built by John Henry Smalpage."

This startling and sensational explanation satisfied me. Not so my
_factotum_, who gave vent in an undertone to such exclamations as
"_Naboclish! Wirra, wirra!_ What does he take us for? Whales, begorra!"

The riddance of the dogs was a grand _coup_ for me. In the event
of having no sport the failure could be easily accounted for, and I
should come off with flying colours.

"I make it a point" observed Simpson, "to shoot as little with dogs as
possible. I like to set my own game, shoot it, and bag it; nor do I
care to be followed by troublesome and often impertinent
self-opinionated game-keepers" (Billy was at this moment engaged in
incarcerating Feltram and Birdlime). "These fellows are always spoilt,
and never know their position."

I was nettled at this.

"If you refer to----"

"My dear Smithe, I allude to my friend Lord Mulligatawny's fellows, got
up in Lincoln green and impossible gaiters, who insist upon loading for
you, and all that sort of thing. You know Mulligatawny, of course?"

I rather apologised for not having the honour.

"Then you shall, Smithe. I'll bring you together when you come to town.
Leave that to me; a nice little party: Mulligatawny, Sir Percy
Whiffler, Colonel Owlfinch of the 1st Life Guards--they're at Beggar's
Bush now, I suppose--Belgum, yourself, and myself."

This was very considerate and flattering; and I heartily hoped that by
some fluke or other we might be enabled to make a bag.

When we arrived upon the shooting-ground, I observed that it was time
to load; and calling up Billy Doyle with the guns, I proceeded to carry
my precept into practice. My weapon was an old-fashioned muzzle-loader,
one of Truelock & Harris's; and as I went through the process of
loading, I could see that Mr Simpson was regarding my movements with a
careful and critical eye.

"I know that you swells despise this sort of thing," I remarked; "but I
have dropped a good many birds with this gun at pretty long ranges, and
have wiped the eyes of many a breech-loading party."

"I--I like that sort of gun," said Simpson. "I'd be glad if you'd take
this," presenting his, with both barrels covering me.

"Good heavens, don't do that!" I cried, shoving the muzzle aside.

"What--what--" he cried, whirling round like a teetotum--"what have I
done?"

"Nothing as yet; but I hate to have the muzzle of a gun turned towards
me since the day I saw poor cousin Jack's brains blown out."

"What am I to do?" exclaimed Simpson. "I'll do anything."

"It's all right," I replied; "you won't mind my old-world stupidity."

My guest's gun was a central-fire breech-loader of Rigby's newest type,
which he commenced to prepare for action in what seemed to me to be a
very bungling sort of way. He dropped it twice, and in releasing the
barrels, brought them into very violent collision with his head, which
caused the waters of anguish to roll silently down his cheeks and on to
his pointed moustache. If I had not been aware of his manifold
experiences in the shooting line, I could have set him down as a man
who had never handled a gun in his life; but knowing his powers and
prowess, I ascribed his awkwardness to simple carelessness, a
carelessness in all probability due to the smallness of the game of
which he was now in pursuit. I therefore refrained from taking any
notice, and from making any observation until he deliberately proceeded
to thrust a patent cartridge into the _muzzle_ of the barrel of
his central-fire.

"Hold hard, Mr Simpson; you are surely only jesting."

"Jesting! How do you mean?"

"Why, using that cartridge in the way you are doing."

"What other way should I use it?"

"May I again remind you that I am utterly averse to facetiousness where
firearms are concerned, and----"

"My dear Smithe, I meant nothing, I assure you. I pledge you my word of
honour. Here, load it yourself;" and he handed me the gun.

"There'll be a job for the coroner afore sunset," growled Billy.

"What do you mean, sir?" exclaimed Simpson, rather savagely.

"Mane! There's widdys and lone orphans enough in the counthry,
sir--that's what I mane," and Billy started in advance with the air of
a man who had to do or die.

Mr Simpson was silent for some time, during which he found himself
perpetually involved in his gun, which appeared to give him the
uttermost uneasiness. First, he held it at arm's length as if it was a
bow; then he placed it under his arm, and held on to it with the
tenacity of an octopus; after a little he shifted it again, sloping it
on his shoulder, ever and anon glancing towards the barrels to
ascertain their exact position. He would pause, place the butt against
the ground, and survey the surrounding prospect with the scrutinising
gaze of a cavalry patrol.

"Hush!" he suddenly exclaimed. "We lost something that time; I heard a
bird."

"Nothin', barrin' a crow," observed Billy.

"A plover, sir; it was the cry of a plover," evasively retorted the
other.

"Holy Vargin! do ye hear this? A pluvver! Divvle resave the pluvver
ever was seen in the barony!"

"Silence, Doyle!" I shouted, finding that my retainer's observations
were becoming personal and unpleasant.

"Troth, we'll all be silent enough by-an'-by."

We had been walking for about half an hour, when Mr Simpson suggested
that it might be advisable to separate, he taking one direction, I
taking the other, but both moving in parallel lines. Having joyfully
assented to this proposition, as the careless manner in which he
handled his gun was fraught with the direst consequences, I moved into
an adjacent bog, leaving my guest to blaze away at what I considered a
safe distance. I took Billy with me, both for company and for counsel,
as my guest's assumed ignorance of the fundamental principles of
shooting had somewhat puzzled me.

"It's a quare bisniss intirely, Masther Jim. He knows no more how to
howld a gun nor you do to howld a baby, more betoken ye've two av the
finest childre--God be good to them!--in Europe. I don't like for to
say he's coddin' us, wud his tigers an' elephants an' combusticles,
but, be me song, it luks very like it. I'd like for to see him
shootin', that wud putt an ind to the question."

At this moment, bang! bang! went the two barrels of my guest's gun.
Billy and I ran to the hedge, and peeping through, perceived Simpson
running very fast towards a clump of furze, shouting and gesticulating
violently. I jumped across the fence, and was rapidly approaching him,
when he waved me back.

"Stop! don't come near me! I'm into them. There are quantities of snipe
here."

"Arrah, what is he talkin' about at all at all?" panted Billy. "Snipes!
Cock him up wud snipes! There ain't a snipe----"

Here Simpson, who had been groping amongst the furze, held up to our
astonished gaze _two brace of snipe_.

Billy Doyle seemed completely dumbfounded. "That bangs anything I ever
heerd tell of. Man nor boy ever seen a snipe in that field afore.
Begorra, he's handy enough wud the gun, after all."

I was very much pleased to find that our excursion had borne fruit, and
that my vaunted preserves were not utterly barren.

"That's a good beginning, Simpson," I cried. "Go ahead; you'll get
plenty of birds by-and-by."

"I'll shoot at nothing but snipe," he replied. "Here you, Billy, come
here and load for me."

"Let's look at the birds, av ye plaze, sir," said Billy, who began to
entertain a feeling akin to respect for a man who could bring down his
two brace at a shot. "I'll be bound they're fat an' cosy, arter the
hoighth av fine feedin' on this slob."

"They're in my bag. By-and-by," replied Simpson curtly. "Now, my man,
follow your master, and leave me to myself;" and my guest strode in the
opposite direction.

Bang! bang!

"Be the mortial, he's at thim agin. This is shupayriour," cried my
retainer, hurrying towards the place whence the report proceeded.

Simpson again held up _two brace of snipe_, and again plunged them
into his bag; nor would he gratify the justifiable longings of our
gamekeeper by as much as a peep at them.

"This is capital sport. Why, this place is swarming with snipe," cried
my guest, whilst his gun was being reloaded. "Depend upon it, it's a
mistake to take dogs. The birds smell them. I'll try that bit of bog
now."

"Ye'll have to mind yer futtin'," observed Billy. "It's crukked an'
crass enough in some spots; I'd betther be wid ye."

"Certainly not," said my guest. "I always shoot alone."

"Och, folly yer own wish, sir; only mind yer futtin'."

Mr Simpson disappeared into the hollow in which the bog was situated,
and, as before, bang! bang! we heard the report of both barrels.

"Be jabers, I'm bet intirely. Thim snipes must have been dhruv from the
say, an' have come here unknownst to any wan. Ay, bawl away! Whisht! be
the hokey, he's into the bog!"

A dismal wailing, accompanied by cries for help, arose from out the
bog, where we found poor Simpson almost up to his chin, and
endeavouring to support himself by his elbows.

"Ugh! ugh! lift me out, for heaven's sake! My new clothes--this coat
that I never put on before" (his whaling garment)--"why did I come to
this infernal hole. Ugh! ugh!"

We dragged him up, leaving his patent boots and stockings behind him.
Billy bore him on his back to the house, where he was stripped and
arrayed in evening costume.

From the pockets of his ulster, which it was found necessary to turn
out for drying purposes, Mr William Doyle extracted no less than _six
brace of snipe_. Unfortunately for Mr Simpson the bill was attached
to the leg of one of the birds. They had been purchased at a
poulterer's in Dublin.

                 *       *       *       *       *

Mr Simpson did not remain to dine or to sleep. He pleaded a business
engagement which he had completely overlooked, and left by the 4.50
train.

"Av all th' imposthors! and his tigers an' elephants no less, an' bears
an' algebras! An' goin' for to cod me into believin' there was snipes
growin' in a clover-field, an' thin never to gi' me a shillin'! Pah!
the naygur!" and Billy Doyle's resentment recognised no limits.

It is scarcely necessary to observe that I was _not_ invited to meet
Lord Mulligatawny, Sir Percy Whiffler, and Colonel Owlfinch of Her
Majesty's Guards, and that my wife holds Simpson over me whenever I
hint at the probability of a visit to the metropolis.




PODGER'S POINTER


I am not a sporting man--I never possessed either a dog or a gun--I
never fired a shot in my life, and the points of a canine quadruped are
as unknown to me as those of the sea-serpent. The 12th of August is a
mystery, and the 1st of September a sealed book. I have been regarded
with well-merited contempt at the club by asking for grouse in the
month of June, and for woodcock in September. I think it is just as
well to mention these matters, lest it should be supposed that I desire
to sail under false colours. I am acquainted with several men who
shoot, and also with some who have shooting to give away. The former
very frequently invite me to join their parties at the moors,
turnip-fields, and woods; the latter press their shooting on me,
especially when I decline on the grounds of disinclination and
incapacity.

"I wish I had your chances, Brown," howls poor little Binks, who can
bring down any known bird at any given distance. "You're always getting
invitations because you _can't_ shoot; and I cannot get one because I
_can_. It's too bad, by George!--it's too bad!"

One lovely morning in the month of September I was sauntering along the
shady side of Sackville Street, Dublin, when a gentleman, encased in a
coat of a resounding pattern, all over pockets, and whose
knickerbockers seemed especially constructed to meet the requirements
of the coat, suddenly burst upon, and clutched me.

"The very man I wanted," he exclaimed. "I've been hunting you the way
O'Mulligan's pup hunted the fourpenny bit through the bonfire."

"What can I do for you, Mr Podgers?" I asked.

"I want a day's shooting at O'Rooney's of Ballybawn," responded
Podgers.

Now, I was not intimate with Mr O'Rooney. We had met at the club; but
as he was a smoking man, and as I, after a prolonged and terrific
combat with a very mild cigar (what must the strong ones be!), had
bidden a long farewell to the Indian weed, it is scarcely necessary to
mention that, although Mr O'Rooney and myself were very frequently
beneath the same roof, we very seldom encountered one another, save in
a casual sort of way.

"I assure you, Mr Podgers, that I----"

"Pshaw! that's all gammon," he burst in anticipatingly. "You can do it
if you like. Sure we won't kill _all_ the game. And I have the
loveliest dog that ever stood in front of a bird. I want to get a
chance of showing him off. He'll do you credit."

I was anxious to oblige Podgers. He had stood by me in a police-court
case once upon a time, and proved an _alibi_ such as must have met
the approval even of the immortal Mr Weller himself; so I resolved upon
soliciting the required permission, and informed Podgers that I would
acquaint him with the result of my application.

"That's a decent fellow. Come back to my house with me now, and I'll
give you a drop of John Jameson that will make your hair curl."

Declining to have my hair curled through the instrumentality of Mr
Jameson's unrivalled whisky, I wended my way towards the club, and, as
luck would have it, encountered O'Rooney lounging on the steps enjoying
a cigar.

After the conventional greetings, I said, "By the way, you have some
capital partridge shooting at Ballybawn."

"Oh, pretty good," was the reply, in that self-satisfied, complacent
tone in which a crack billiard-player refers to the spot-stroke, or a
rifleman to his score when competing for the Queen's Prize.

"I'm no shot myself--I never fired a gun in my life; but there's a
particular friend of mine who is most anxious to have _one_ day's
shooting at Ballybawn. Do you think you could manage to let him have
it?"

I emphasised the word "one" in the most impressive way.

"I would give one or two days, Mr Brown, with the greatest pleasure;
but the fact is, I have lent my dogs to Sir Patrick O'Houlahan."

"Oh, as to that, my friend has a splendid dog--a most remarkable dog. I
hear it's a treat to see him in front of a bird."

I stood manfully by Podgers' exact words, adding some slight
embellishments, in order to increase O'Rooney's interest in the animal.

"In that case, there can be no difficulty, Mr Brown. I leave for
Ballybawn on Saturday--will you kindly name Monday, as I would, in
addition to the pleasure of receiving you and your friend, like to
witness the performance of this remarkable dog; and I _must_ be in
Galway on Wednesday."

Having settled the preliminaries so satisfactorily, I wrote the
following note to Podgers:--

    "DEAR PODGERS,

    "It's all right. Mr O'Rooney has named Monday. _Be sure to bring
    the dog, as his dogs are away._ Come and breakfast with me at
    eight o'clock, as the train starts from the King's Bridge Terminus
    at nine o'clock.--Yours,

    "BENJAMIN B. BROWN.

    "P.S.--_I praised the dog sky high._ O'R. is most anxious to see
    him in front of the birds."

I received a gushing note in reply, stating that he would breakfast
with me, and bring the dog, adding, "It's some time since he was shot
over; but that makes no difference, as he is the finest dog in
Leinster."

Knowing Podgers to be a very punctual sort of person, I had ordered
breakfast for eight o'clock sharp, and consequently felt somewhat
surprised when the timepiece chimed the quarter past.

I consulted his letter--day, date, and time were recapitulated in the
most businesslike way. Some accident might have detained him. Perhaps
he preferred meeting me at the station. I had arrived at this
conclusion, and had just made the first incision into a round of
buttered toast, when a very loud, jerky, uneven knocking thundered at
the hall door, and the bell was tugged with a violence that threatened
to drag the handle off.

I rushed to the window, and perceived Podgers clinging frantically to
the area railings with one hand, whilst with the other he held a chain,
attached to which, at the utmost attainable distance, stood, or
stretched, in an attitude as if baying the moon, the fore legs planted
out in front, the hind legs almost _clutching_ the granite step,
the eyes betraying an inflexible determination not to budge one
inch from the spot--a bony animal, of a dingy white colour, with
dark patches over the eyes, imparting a mournfully dissipated
appearance--the redoubtable dog which was to afford us a treat "in
front of the birds."

"Hollo, Podgers!" I cried, "you're late!"

"This cursed animal," gasped Podgers; "he got away from me in Merrion
Square after a cat. The cat climbed up the Prince Consort statue. This
brute, somehow or other got up after her. She was on the head, and he
was too high for me to reach him, when I got the hook of this umbrella
and----"

At this moment the hall-door opened, and the dog being animated with an
energetic desire to explore the interior of the house, suddenly relaxed
the pull upon the chain, which utterly unexpected movement sent Podgers
flying into the hall as though he had been discharged from a catapult.
My maid-of-all-work, an elderly lady with proclivities in the direction
of "sperrits," happened to stand right in the centre of the doorway
when Podgers commenced his unpremeditated bound. He cannoned against
her, causing her to reel and stagger against the wall, and to clutch
despairingly at the nearest available object to save herself from
falling. That object happened to be the curly hair of my acrobatic
friend, to which her five fingers clung as the suckers of the octopus
cling to the crab. By the aid of this substantial support she had just
righted herself, when the dog, finding himself comparatively free, made
one desperate plunge into the hall, entwining his chain round the limbs
of the lady in one dexterous whirl which levelled her, with a very
heavy thud, on the body of the prostrate Podgers. Now, whether she was
animated with the idea that she was in bodily danger from both master
and dog, and that it behoved her to defend herself to the uttermost
extent of her power, I cannot possibly determine; but she commenced a
most vigorous onslaught upon both, bestowing a kick and a cuff
alternately with an impartiality that spoke volumes in favour of her
ideas upon the principles of even--and indeed I may add, heavy-handed
justice.

I arrived upon the scene in time to raise the prostrate form of my
friend, and to administer such words of consolation and sympathy as,
under the circumstances, were his due. His left eye betrayed symptoms
of incipient inflammation, and his mouth gave evidence of the violence
with which Miss Bridget Byrne (the lady in the case) had brought her
somewhat heavy knuckle-dusters into contact with it.

"Bringin' wild bastes into a gintleman's dacent house, as if it was a
barn, that's manners!" she muttered. "Av I can get a clout at that dog,
I'll lave him as bare as a plucked thrush!"

At this instant a violent crash of crockery-ware was heard in the
regions of the kitchen.

"Holy Vargin! but the baste is on the dhresser! _I'll_ dhress the
villian!" and seizing upon a very stout ash stick which stood in the
hall, she darted rapidly in the direction from whence the dire sounds
were proceeding.

"Hold hard, woman!" cried Podgers. "He's a very valuable animal. I'll
make good any damage. Use your authority, Brown," he added, appealing
to me. "She's a terrible person this; she'd stop at nothing."

Ere I could interpose, a violent skirmishing took place, in which such
exclamations as "Take that, ye divvle! Ye'll brake me chaney, will ye?
There's chaney for ye!" followed by very audible whacks, which, if they
had fulfilled their intended mission, would very speedily have sent the
dog to the happy hunting-grounds of his race. One well-directed blow,
however, made its mark, and was succeeded by a whoop of triumph from
Miss Byrne and a yell of anguish from her vanquished foe.

"Gelang, ye fireside spaniel! Ye live on the neighbours. How dar' ye
come in here? Ye'll sup sorrow. I'll give a couple more av I can get at
ye."

Podgers rushed to the rescue, and, after a very protracted and exciting
chase, during which a well-directed blow, intended by Bridget for the
sole use and benefit of the dog, had alighted on the head of its
master, succeeded in effecting a capture. This, too, was done under
embarrassing circumstances; for the dog had sought sanctuary within the
sacred precincts of Miss Byrne's sleeping apartment, beneath the very
couch upon which it was the habit of that lady to repose her virgin
form after the labours of the day; and her indignation knew no bounds
when Podgers, utterly unmindful of the surroundings, hauled forth the
dog.

"There's no dacency in man nor baste. They're all wan, sorra a lie in
it!"

At this crisis Podgers must have developed his pecuniary resources, for
her tone changed with marvellous rapidity, and her anger was melted
into a well-feigned contrition for having used her fists so freely.

"Poor baste! shure it's frightened he is. I wudn't hurt a fly, let
alone an illigant tarrier like that. Thry a bit o' beefsteak in regard
o' yer eye, sir. Ye must have hot it agin somethin' hard; it will be as
black as a beetle in tin minits."

Podgers uttered full-flavoured language. I looked at my watch and found
that we could only "do" the train. Having hailed an outside car, the
breakfastless Podgers seated himself upon one side, whilst I took the
other, and after a very considerable expenditure of hard labour and
skilful strategy, in which we were aided by the carman and Miss Byrne,
we succeeded in forcing Albatross (the pointer) into the well in the
middle. I am free to confess that I sat with my back to that animal
with considerable misgivings. He looked hungry and vicious, and as
though a piece of human flesh would prove as agreeable to his capacious
maw as any other description of food. It was his habit, too, during our
journey, to elevate his head in the air, and to give utterance to a
series of the most unearthly howlings, which could only be partially
interrupted, not by any means stopped, by Podgers' hat being pressed
closely over the mouth, whilst Podgers punched him _a tergo_ with
no very light hand.

"That's the quarest dog I ever seen," observed the driver. "He ought to
be shupayrior afther badgers. He has a dhrop in his eye like a widdy's
pig, and it's as black as a Christian's afther a ruction."

"He's a very fine dog, sir," exclaimed Podgers, in a reproving tone.

"He looks as if he'd set a herrin'," said the cab-man jocosely.

"Mind your horse, sir!" said Podgers angrily.

The driver, who was a jovial-tempered fellow, finding that his advances
towards "the other side" were rejected, turned towards mine.

"Are you goin' huntin' wid the dog, sir?" he asked.

"We're going to shoot," I replied, in a dignified way.

"To shoot! Thin, begorra, yez may as well get off the car an' fire away
at wanst. There's an illigant haystack foreninst yez, and--but here we
are"--and he jerked up at the entrance to the station.

The jerk sent Albatross flying off the car, and his chain being
dexterously fastened to the back rail of the driver's seat, the
luckless animal remained suspended whilst his collar was being
unfastened, in order to prevent the not very remote contingency of
strangulation. Finding himself at liberty, he bounded joyously away,
and, resisting all wiles and blandishments on the part of his master,
continued to bound, gambol, frisk, bark, and yowl in a most reckless
and idiotic way. It would not be acting fairly towards Podgers were I
to chronicle his language during this festive outbreak. If the dog was
in a frolicsome mood, Podgers was not, and his feelings got
considerably the better of him when the bell rang to announce the
departure of the train within three minutes of that warning.

Finding that all hopes of securing the animal in the ordinary way were
thin as air, Podgers offered a reward of half-a-crown to any of the
grinning bystanders who would bring him the dog dead or alive. This
stimulus to exertion sent twenty corduroyed porters and as many
amateurs in full pursuit of Albatross, who ducked and dived, and
twisted and twined, and eluded detention with the agility of a greased
sow; and it was only when one very corpulent railway official fell upon
him in a squashing way, and during a masterly struggle to emerge from
beneath the overwhelming weight, that he was surrounded and led in
triumph, by as many of his pursuers as could obtain a handful of his
hair, up to his irate and wrathful master. Each of the captors who were
in possession of Albatross claimed a half-crown, refusing to give up
the animal unless it was duly ransomed; and it was during a fierce and
angry discussion upon this very delicate question that the last bell
rang. With one despairing tug, Podgers pulled the dog inside the door
of the station, which was then promptly closed, and through the
intervention of a friendly guard our _bête noire_ was thrust into
the carriage with us.

Having kicked the cause of our chagrin beneath one of the seats, I
ventured to remark that in all probability the dog, instead of being a
credit to us, was very likely to prove the reverse.

"It's only his liveliness, and be hanged to him," said Podgers. "He has
been shut up for some time, and is as wild as a deer."

He would not admit a diminished faith in the dog; but his tone was
irresolute, and he eyed the animal in a very doubting way.

"His liveliness ought to be considerably toned down after the rough
handling he received from my servant, and----"

"By the way," Podgers went on, "that infernal woman isn't safe to have
in the house; she'll be tried for murder some day, and the coroner will
be sitting upon _your_ body. Is my eye very black?"

"Not very," I replied. It had reached a disreputable greenish hue,
tinged with a tawny red.

At Ballybricken Station we found a very smart trap awaiting us, with a
servant in buckskin breeches, and in top-boots polished as brightly as
the panels of the trap.

"You've a dog, sir?" said the servant.

"Yes, yes," replied Podgers, in a hurried and confused sort of way.

"In the van, sir?"

"No; he is here--under the seat. Come out, Albatross!--come out, good
fellow!" And Podgers chirruped and whistled in what was meant to be a
seductive and blandishing manner.

Albatross stirred not.

"Hi! hi! Here, good fellow!"

Albatross commenced to growl.

"Dear me, this is very awkward!" cried Podgers, poking at the animal in
a vigorous and irritated way.

"Time's up, sir," shouted the guard, essaying to close the door.

"Hold hard, sir! I can't get my dog out!" cried Podgers.

"I'll get him out," volunteered the guard; and, seizing upon the whip
which the smart driver of the smart trap held in inviting proximity, he
proceeded to thrust and buffet beneath the seat where Albatross lay
concealed. The dog uttered no sound, gave no sign.

"There ain't no dog there at all," panted the guard, whose exertions
rendered him nearly apoplectic, proceeding to explore the recesses of
the carriage--"there ain't no dog here."

A shout of terror, and the guard flung himself out of the carriage, the
dog hanging on not only to his coat-tails, but to a portion of the
garment which their drapery concealed. "Take off your dog--take off
your dog. I'll be destroyed. Police! police! I'll have the law of you!"
he yelled, in an extremity of the utmost terror.

Podgers, who was now nearly driven to his wits' end, caught Albatross
by the neck, and, bestowing a series of well-directed kicks upon the
devoted animal, sent him howling off the platform, but right under the
train.

The cry of "The dog will be killed!" was raised by a chorus of voices
both from the carriages and the platform. Happily, however, the now
wary Albatross lay flat upon the ground, and the train went puffing on
its way; not, however, until the guard had taken Podgers' name and
address, with a view to future proceedings through the medium of the
law.

"I had no idea that the O'Rooneys were such swells," observed my
companion as we entered, through the massive and gilded gates, to the
avenue which sweeps up to Ballybawn House. "Somehow or other, I wish I
hadn't fetched Albatross, or that you hadn't spoken about him;" and
Podgers threw a gloomy glance in the direction of the pointer, who lay
at our feet in the bottom of the trap, looking as if he had been on the
rampage for the previous month, or had just emerged from the asylum for
the destitute of his species.

"He won't do us much credit as regards his appearance," I said; "but if
he is all that you say as a sporting dog--of which I have my doubts--it
will make amends for anything."

Podgers muttered something unintelligible, and I saw dismal forebodings
written in every line of his countenance.

Mr O'Rooney received us at the hall-door. Beside him crouched two
magnificent setters, with coats as glossy as mirrors, and a bearing as
aristocratic as that of Bethgellart.

"Where's the dog?" asked our host, after a warm greeting. "I hope that
you have brought him."

I must confess that I would have paid a considerable sum of money to
have been enabled to reply in the negative. I muttered that we had
indeed fetched him, but that owing to his having met with some
accidents _en voyage_, his personal appearance was considerably
diminished; but that we were not to judge books by their covers.

As if to worry, vex, and mortify us, Albatross declined to stir from
the bottom of the trap, from whence he was subsequently rooted out in a
most undignified and anti-sporting way.

The expression upon Mr O'Rooney's face, when at length the animal,
badger-like, was drawn, was that of an intense astonishment, combined
with a mirth convulsively compressed. The servants commenced to titter,
and the smart little gentleman who tooled us over actually laughed
outright.

Albatross was partly covered with mud and offal. His eyes were watery,
and the lids were of a dull pink, imparting a sort of maudlin idiotcy
to their expression. His right ear stood up defiantly, whilst his left
lay flat upon his jowl, and his tail seemed to have disappeared
altogether, so tightly had he, under the combined influence of fear and
dejection, secured it between his legs.

"He's not very handsome," observed our host laughingly, "but I dare say
he will take the shine out of York and Lancaster, by-and-by," pointing
to the two setters as he spoke.

This hint was enough for Albatross, as no sooner had the words escaped
the lips of O'Rooney than, with a yowl which sent the rooks whirling
from their nests, he darted from the trap, and, making a charge at
York, sent that aristocratic animal flying up the avenue in a paroxysm
of terror and despair; whilst Lancaster, paralysed by the suddenness of
the onslaught, allowed himself to be seized by the neck, and worried,
as a cat worries a mouse, without as much as moving a muscle in
self-defence.

This was too much. I had borne with this hideous animal too long. My
patience was utterly exhausted, and all the bad temper in my
composition began to boil up. I had placed myself under an obligation
to a comparative stranger for the purpose of beholding his magnificent
and valuable dogs scared and worried by a worthless cur. Seizing upon a
garden-rake that lay against the wall, I dealt at Albatross what ought
to have proved a crushing blow, which he artfully eluded. It only
grazed him, and fell, with almost its full swing and strength, upon the
passive setter, who set up a series of unearthly shrieks, almost human
in their painful shrillness.

"Chain up that dog at once!" shouted O'Rooney in fierce and angry
tones, "and look to Lancaster. I fear that his ribs are broken. This is
very unfortunate," he added, addressing himself to me.

"I don't know what's come over the animal!" exclaimed Podgers. "I wish
to heaven I had never seen him. I'll part with him to-morrow, if I have
to give him to the Zoological Gardens for the bears."

Luckily, it turned out, upon examination, that Lancaster was not in any
way seriously injured. This put us into somewhat better spirits, so
that by the time breakfast was concluded we were on good terms with
each other, and even with the wretched Albatross, in whom we still
maintained a sort of sickly confidence. Later on we started for the
turnips, Mr O'Rooney and Podgers in front--the latter hauling Albatross
along as if he was a sack of wheat; whilst I brought up the rear with a
gamekeeper and York.

"I don't think that animal is used to be out at all, at all," observed
the keeper.

"I'm afraid you are quite right," I replied; "but I hear that he is a
very good sporting dog."

"Sportin'! Begorra, he'll give yez sport enough before the day is half
over," said the keeper, with a gloomy grin.

"There is always a covey to be found in this field," observed our host
to Podgers, "so we'll give your dog the first chance."

"I--I--I'd rather you'd let him see what your dog will do," blurted
Podgers.

"Oh, dear no!" returned Mr O'Rooney. "Let him go now. You'll take the
first shot."

Very reluctantly indeed did Podgers unloose his pointer, uttering into
the dog's ear in a low tone the most terrific and appalling threats
should he fail to prove himself all that my fancy had painted him. With
a loud bark of defiance Albatross darted away, scurrying through the
turnips at the rate of fifteen miles an hour, utterly unmindful of
whistle, call, blandishment, or threat, appearing now in one direction,
now in another, and barking as though it had been part of its training.

"Stop that dog," cried our host, "he won't leave us a bird," as covey
after covey of partridges rose beyond range and flew away, Albatross
joyously barking after them.

"You said I was to have the first shot, Mr O'Rooney," said Podgers, in
a tone full of solemnity.

"Certainly, if you can get it; which I doubt," was the curt reply.

Albatross had dashed within twenty yards of us, and was plunging off in
another direction, when Podgers ran forward, raised his gun. Bang!

Albatross was sent to the happy hunting-grounds of his race.

"He frightened the partridge," observed Podgers, proceeding to reload;
"_let him frighten the crows now_."




THE DEAD HEAT


No, never had there been such a state of excitement in any ball-room
before, when it became known that Captain O'Rooney had entrapped
Lieutenant Charles Fortescue, of the Stiffshire Regiment, into a
thousand guineas match P.P., owners up, twelve stone each, and four
miles over the stiffest country in Galway.

The match had been made at the supper-table, after the ladies had left;
but nevertheless, the news had been carried to them, and they were
furious.

"Fancy," said one, a tall, handsome brunette, "that that little
wretched bandy-legged O'Rooney should have got round our handsome
friend in such a mean way. He is jealous and disgusted with Fortescue's
waltzing, and he _is_ the best waltzer in Ireland."

"I'll make him a set of colours to ride in," returned the toast of five
counties, the beautiful Alice Gwynne. "I never made any before, but
'there's luck in odd numbers, says Rory O'More,' and so he is sure to
win in them."

"Too bad," exclaimed the gray-haired Colonel of Fortescue's regiment to
some gentlemen standing by him at the supper-table, "to have hounded
the lad into it. O'Rooney is a noted steeplechase rider, and my boy"
(he always called the youngsters of his regiment his boys), "though a
workman across country, never rode a race in his life; but I hear that
Captain O'Rooney has the character of looking up the Griffs."

"Faith, Colonel, ye are about right there," said a jolly-looking young
Irishman; "he is just the boy that can do that same; he is mad now
because Fortescue's English horse cut him down to-day, and pounded
him--a thing that has never been done before."

"Bedad, you're out there, Mat," put in another; "I'd be after thinking
it is because the Leaftenent has been making mighty strong running
entirely with Alice Gwynne all this blessed night. O'Rooney, by my
faith, does not like _that_, devil a hap'orth; he considers himself the
favoured one--the consated spalpeen."

"He the favoured one!" remarked big H----, of Fortescue's regiment;
"why, he cannot suppose he would have a ghost of a chance with that pug
nose and whisky-toddy countenance of his against Fortescue of ours.
Why, Old Nick himself could not boast of an uglier face than Pat
Rooney. Fortescue is about the handsomest and nicest fellow in the
service, and though only a poor man, yet there are devilish few girls,
at least of any taste, who would give him the 'cold shoulder.'"

The conversation was put an end to by the redoubtable Captain O'Rooney
they were descanting on, and with whom all seemed to be on such bad
terms, walking towards them.

"I will make one endeavour now," said the Colonel, "to put a stop to
this match."

"Captain O'Rooney," said he, as that gentleman joined them, "I am sorry
to hear of this proposed steeplechase, and for such a sum. Mr Fortescue
is a young man, and has acted very foolishly; moreover, though he holds
the post of adjutant, he has little, I know, but his pay, and such a
loss as a thousand pounds would seriously inconvenience him. Let me
recommend, Captain O'Rooney, that Fortescue give you a hundred pounds
to-morrow morning and draw the bet. What say you, gentlemen all, is the
proposal fair?"

"Nothing fairer," they exclaimed.

"See now, Colonel," said Captain O'Rooney, "let us hear what Mr
Fortescue says: he is not here; he'll be found in the ball-room, I'm
after thinking."

"True for ye, Captain dear," said the jolly-looking young Irishman
before alluded to. "Divil a bit," he continued, with a sly and
malicious twinkle of his blue eye, "is Fortescue in the ball. Be
jabers, he is seated in the card-room alone by Alice Gwynne, playing
with her bouquet and fan. I'll go and fetch him; but it's a pity to
disturb him. I'd almost take my oath he has been asking her to be Mrs
Fortescue, and by my soul I don't think she has said no." So saying,
the young man, without giving the other time to answer, vanished from
the room.

"What is it, Colonel?" said Fortescue, coming in almost immediately
after.

"See now," said O'Rooney, interrupting him; "the Colonel says this is a
foolish match we have entered into, and proposes that ye should pay me
a hundred down to-morrow to let ye off. What d'ye say?"

"What do I say?" replied the young man; "why, I'll do anything the
Colonel likes. I think it is a foolish match. I was excited and out of
humour when I made it. I'm better now, and if you like to take a
hundred and draw, why I'll send you a cheque to-morrow morning for the
amount, or run you for a hundred, which you like."

"See, now," said the Captain, his naturally red face getting purple
with anger and excitement. "I've heard ye both--the Colonel and
yourself; now both of ye hear me. If ye were to offer me nine hundred
and ninety-nine pounds, d--n me if I'd take it, for by the Rock of
Cashel, I'll lick ye and break your heart and neck over the country;
and see now, Fortescue," he continued, "steer clear of the heiress."

"What do you mean, sir," retorted the young man, firing up. "Steer
clear of the heiress? you forget yourself; do you presume to put a lady
in the question?" and saying this, he turned away.

"All devilish fine," said O'Rooney, sticking his hands in his pockets
and sauntering away from the supper-table, humming a verse of Harry
Lorrequer's well-known song:--

    "The King of Oude
    Is mighty proud,
    And so were onst the Caysars (Cæsars);
    But ould Giles Eyre
    Would make them stare,
    Av he had them with the Blazers.

    "To the devil I'd fling--ould Runjeet Singh
      He's only a prince in a small way;
    And knows nothing at all of a six-foot wall,
      Oh! he'd never do for Galway."

"Won't he?" muttered Fortescue to himself, as he caught the last words,
"perhaps I'll show you he will." If the Captain had not been so blind
with passion, he might have heard the gallant Adjutant singing _sotto
voce_ a verse of a song from the same author, as he strode
carelessly from the room:--

    "Put his arm round her waist,
    Gave ten kisses at laste,
      'Oh!' says he, 'you're my Molly Malone,
                          'My own,
      'Oh!' says he, 'you're my Molly Malone!'"

What did he mean?

"By the great gun of Athlone, I'm mighty glad entirely they're both
gone from the room," said a hard-riding Galway squire, as the
illustrious Captain O'Rooney disappeared from sight. "I thought there
was an illigant row brewing. Better as it is. Where O'Rooney is to get
the coin from if he loses, divil a one of me knows. He's in 'Quare
Street' long ago. Never mind, boys; let us have the groceries. 'O
Punch! you are my darling,' and the devil fly away with dull care. Now
Colonel," he continued, "upon my conscience, as O'Rooney won't listen
to reason, you must look after Fortescue's interests. O'Rooney will
endeavour to pick out a country. I mean he will go building up walls,
and so on. You must have your own way a little, or, begorra, he'll do
as he likes entirely. Now, there is one thing that will beat him if
anything will--you must insist on that, or I would not give a trauneen
for Fortescue's chance--and that is" (he dropped his voice to a
whisper) _one_ if not _two_ WATER-jumps; if anything will stop
Mad Moll it is WATER."

"It shall be done," said the Colonel; "I'll see that the lad is not
taken advantage of." And the old field-officer kept his word, as will
be seen in the sequel.

O'Rooney was greatly disturbed when he knew there were to be one or
more water-jumps. He fought hard and gallantly against it; but the
Colonel was obdurate. "By Gad, sir," said he, "you do not want it
entirely your own way, do you? I have not interfered with the country
in any way. I have said nothing as to the six-foot wall you have built
up, and others equally dangerous, and now you cavil at a paltry ditch."

"Ditch do ye call it, Colonel? fifteen feet of water, hurdled and
staked, a ditch, and another of eleven. By my troth, no such like
ditches are found between this and Ballinasloe. But never mind. Glory
be to Moses, I'll get over them. And then, h--ll to my soul, if the
English horse will ever come near Mad Moll's girths again."

"We think nothing of nineteen feet, sir," said the Colonel. "In
England, fifteen feet is nothing; but my youngster shall have a
chance."

Great was the excitement throughout the country--indeed, in all parts
of Ireland. Such a match had not been known for years--"a thousand
pounds!" What could the English soldier have been thinking of! The nags
went on well in their training, closely guarded by their respective
admirers. The English horse took to wall-jumping beautifully; but it
was doubted whether, even with his great turn of speed, he had the foot
of the Irish mare--a clipper. Then again, though Fortescue was a cool
and daring horseman, he had not the experience of the Captain, who had
ridden many a hard-contested race before, across country and over the
flat.

The stakes had been made good and deposited according to agreement with
the Colonel. The Captain had found friends to share in the bet, for
though he was generally disliked, yet they had confidence in his horse
and his horsemanship. Fortescue, too, had friends, nor had his
commanding officer been idle. Men from his own regiment had come
forward, so all he stood to lose was two hundred and fifty; this and
other matters made him sanguine and light-hearted. In addition to all,
he had received a beautiful cap and jacket from Miss Gwynne.

The sporting papers, English and Irish, teemed with the forthcoming
match. "Lieut. Charles Fortescue's bay horse Screwdriver, aged, against
Capt. O'Rooney's chestnut mare Mad Moll, six years old, for ONE
THOUSAND guineas a side," appeared in the _County Chronicle_.

The excitement was intense. Such a stiff bit of country had not been
seen or ridden over for years. The betting would have been decidedly in
favour of the Captain, but his mare's well-known dislike to water
prevented anything like odds being laid--so they were both about equal
favourites.

"By George, old fellow!" said one of Fortescue's chums to him one
morning, some six days previous to the race, "I really think your
chance is becoming more rosy every hour. The more O'Rooney's mare sees
the water the less she likes it. A sergeant in my company, a Galway
man, has a country cousin in the barracks who knows all about it. Just
go to Sergeant Blake," he said, turning to a bugler passing by, "and
tell him to come here, and bring his cousin with him. Mr Fortescue
wishes to see him."

The man soon appeared. "Salute your supareor," said the Sergeant, as he
squared his heels. "Touch your caubeen."

"Arrah, now, Patrick, wasn't I after doing it?"

"Well, do it at onst, ye murdering ruffian, and tell all ye know."

"Yes, sir, yer honour," commenced the man, "Faix, the Captain 'av' been
trying the mare day after day at the water. Onst she jumped finely. The
Captain made a brook close by our cabin, and is often wid her there.
Sometimes she jumps and sometimes she won't; and when she won't, mille
murther! maybe don't he larrup her! Long life to your honour! but I
don't think the mare likes water, at all, at all. And by my troth,
there's many a man thinks the same. The devil's luck to him! he's been
all over the fresh-planted praties, and cut them to smithereens, bad
cess to him! But av course, Leiftenent, ye won't tell on a poor boy,
more by token as he is after doing yer honour a little sarvice. I
wouldn't give a handful of prayers for my life if he found me out; for
sorra a one knows the Captain better than myself, death to his sowl!
Tear-an-ages! he's a terrible bad man entirely, is the Captain. The top
of the morning, and long life to your honour!" said the gossoon, as the
Sergeant led him away, pocketing half a crown.

"There, Fortescue, what do you think of that?" said his friend, as they
sauntered away to the anteroom for a whiskey and soda. "It's evident
Mad Moll is no water jumper. By Jupiter! I think you will pull through.
Quite fair my giving the lad half-a-crown. O'Rooney's friends have been
doing the same--fair play is a jewel!"

Somehow the public at last began to lean towards the English horse. He
did his work quietly and openly, without any attempt at concealment.

But what is this excitement in the barrack yard? Officers are rushing
to the mess-room. Two gentlemen have been driven up there in a car.
Lord Plunger and his friend Bradon have arrived. They are old friends
of the Stiffshire battalion.

"By George! Plunger and Bradon, I'm delighted to see you," said the
warm-hearted Colonel, hastening in, while endeavouring to make his
sword-belt meet about his somewhat bulky waist. "I did not tell the
boys I had written for you both. Lunch ready in ten minutes--glass of
sherry first to wet your mouths. Now, Fortescue will have a little good
advice. You will ride the last gallop to-morrow morning, Bradon, and
give us your opinion. Dammee, I'm so glad to see you both in the wild
west. Here, some one tell the captain of the day I won't have another
roll-call. Obliged to do this kind of thing here, Bradon--never know
what's going to happen from one minute to another. Shooting landlords
like the devil. Potted Lambert last week; five shots in him, and the
only one that did no harm was the one that took him in the forehead.
Rest his sowl, as the Irishmen say, a near escape for him. Lucky dog!
Here is the sherry!" In this way did the popular Colonel rattle on.

The gallop is over, and Screwdriver has been tried at even weights
against a good one. George Bradon had thought it better that Fortescue
should ride his own horse in the trial, which he did. "By Jove, you've
got a clipper, Fortescue!" said the former, as they pulled up; "you
don't know how good. I deceived you all when I told you I had borrowed
this nag to try you. Keep your mouth shut, hermetically sealed, old
fellow, and I'll tell you something you will care to know. It is no
commoner you have galloped against to-day. Mind, on your life, not a
word to your dearest friend. It's my own horse, GUARDSMAN, you have had
a spin with--the winner of the Cheltenham Grand Annual!"

The young man thus addressed sat like one in a dream, at this
revelation.

"It's all old Mason's doing, Fortescue," said he. "He advised me to
bring him over. I'm off now. Look at that knot of people coming over
the hill; there are some who crossed the Channel yesterday with me who
would know my old pet, and I would not have it blown upon for a
trifle--the horse has been in Ireland for a week on the quiet. I'm now
off, across country to Athenry, where Mason is, and has a stable for
him. The horse will leave by the late train to-night for England with
a lad; so no one will be a bit the wiser. My old stud-groom will come
to your diggings this evening with me to give you a help. So _au
revoir_ till mess-time, when you will see yours truly;" and putting
his horse at a five-foot wall, he sent him over, hurling the loose
stones behind him in a cloud, and was quickly out of sight.

"So your friend has gone," said the gallant Colonel, as Fortescue
walked his horse up to a host of his brother-officers and friends
assembled in a knot on the hill, amongst which several strangers were
distinguishable.

"Yes," replied Fortescue, carelessly, "he will be with us at mess.
Here, take the horse home, Forester"--to his man--"see no one comes
near him."

"That's a horse to back," said a sly-looking little man in a large drab
overcoat; and coming up to Fortescue he whispered quietly to him: "I'm
on your nag for a plumper. I keep my own counsel, and shall not split.
I never come except with a rush at the last minute. My glasses are
good. You've had a spin with one of the best cross-country horses in
England. Clever and fast as that nag is, he can't give you seven
pounds. You ran him to a length or two. I know George Bradon and
Guardsman well. I've won a pot full of money on them before. There,
don't look scared; you are a youngster. Sit well down on Screwdriver,
hold him together, don't give a lead over the water, and you will land
him a winner. I know more than you think; but for my own sake I'm
MUM!"

"News for you all!" said the Colonel of Fortescue's regiment, bursting
into the mess-room, where some nine or ten officers were at breakfast,
amongst whom were Lord Plunger and Bradon. "Here, Fortescue," continued
the excited old gentleman, "this letter"--holding out one--"concerns
you more immediately. Read it out."

The young man thus addressed took the letter and read the following:--

    "DEAR COLONEL,

    "As you all know, this is the morning of the race. Something has
    happened. For God's sake ride over and see me at once.--

    "Yours faithfully,

    "P. O'ROONEY.

    "Clough-bally-More Castle, Friday morning."

"There, gentlemen, what do you think of that?" cried the Colonel, as
Fortescue slowly folded up the letter and returned it to him.
"Something in that--no race for a guinea."

"Race or no race," said Lord Plunger, "the money is lodged with you. It
is a p.p. bet, and must be paid."

"Mare gone amiss," put in Bradon. "I knew he was giving her too much of
it. This is a hard, stony country; horses won't stand much continued
work. Poor brutes! they are galloped shin sore--all the life and energy
taken out of them--sweated to death, and made as thin as
whipping-posts, and they are said to be in condition. Serves him
right."

"Hold, Bradon, my boy," interrupted Lord Plunger, "you do not know that
such is the case. The mare was all right last night, that I am certain
of. She is about six miles from here, at a Mr Blake's. I am inclined to
think O'Rooney has got into trouble."

"At any rate we shall soon know," returned the Colonel; "for here is my
horse coming round. I shall be back in an hour or a little more. I'll
look after your interests, Fortescue," he continued. "It is only
half-past ten now. The race is not till three. Keep cool, and don't
take too many brandy-and-sodas, till you see me again." And so saying,
he took his departure.

What was up? Had the mare broken down? Was O'Rooney arrested? It must
be one or the other. It could not be about the stakes, for these were
lodged to the Colonel's credit in the Bank of Ireland. What could it be
then?

"I cannot help thinking, Fortescue," said Lord Plunger, "that somehow
or other you will have to don the new colours, doeskins, and tops, and
give us a sight of your way of crossing the Galway country." As he was
speaking, one of the mess waiters came in and said a few words to
Fortescue, which made that gentleman immediately leave the room. On
reaching his quarters he found seated there a sly-looking little man in
a large drab overcoat.

"I beg your pardon," said the stranger to the officer as he entered.
"You know me, I think?"

Fortescue slightly inclined his head.

"The object of my coming," continued the sly-looking little man, "is to
tell you that there is a writ out against Captain O'Rooney for four
hundred pounds. He will not show up to-day. He is a _Sunday man_:
now the race is ours--yours I ought to say--you will only have to go
over the course. Good-morning."

But he was not allowed to depart in that way. He was soon in the
mess-room, and all were put in possession of the facts.

In the meantime the good Colonel rode on at a rapid pace, wondering at
the contents of the note, and conjuring up all sorts of things.
Five-and-twenty minutes brought him to the gate, or what should have
been the gate, of Clough-bally-More Castle, but it was gone. Cantering
up the neglected wilderness-like avenue, he was soon in front of a
ruinous-looking pile. This was Clough-bally-More Castle--a place best
described by a quotation from Hood's beautiful poem of "The Haunted
House"--

    "Unhinged the iron gates half open hung,
      Jarr'd by the gusty gales of many winters,
    That from its crumbled pedestal had flung
      One marble globe in splinters.

           *       *       *       *       *

    "With shatter'd panes the grassy court was starr'd;
      The time-worn coping-stone had tumbled after;
    And through the ragged roof the sky shone, barr'd
      With naked beam and rafter."

Getting off his horse and walking up the broken, moss-covered steps,
the Colonel rang the bell, which gave forth a melancholy sound that
scared a colony of jackdaws who had established themselves unmolested
for many a year in the chimneys and uninhabited rooms.

On the second summons a shock head was cautiously poked out of an upper
window. "Sure now, it's no use at all, at all, av yer ringing away like
that: the master's gone abroad these six months; he told me to say so
last night. Divil a writ can you serve him wid, my honey; av ye don't
be off the master will be after shooting ye for a thafe from the hall
windy."

"I'm no writ server," returned the Colonel. "I come in consequence of a
note I received from Captain O'Rooney this morning."

"Troth, then, ye are the English soldier colonel. His honour the master
will be wid ye at onst," and the head disappeared.

Presently that of the Captain protruded.

"See now, Colonel," said he, "ould Mat thought you were a Bum. I'm
sorry to say I'm a _Sunday man_ now. The thundering thieves they've
been about the place all the morning to serve me. I wish they may get
it. Nabocklish! catch a weasel asleep. I'll let you in."

In a minute or so the front door was slowly and cautiously unchained,
and the Colonel found himself in the hall of Clough-bally-More Castle.
It was a perfect ruin, and, if possible, more ghastly and
miserable-looking on the inside than the outside. The Captain's room
was, however, pretty cosy, and in decent repair. A bright turf fire
burnt on the hearth; a couple of guns adorned the walls; rods,
fishing-tackle, and various other sporting paraphernalia were scattered
about the room in indescribable confusion.

"Be seated, Colonel," said the steeple-chase rider; "I may as well come
to the point at once. D----, of Galway, has a writ out against my
person for four hundred pounds. They tried to serve it on me last
night, and again this morning, the divil fly away with them! May the
flames of----"

"What is to be done, Capt. O'Rooney?" interrupted the Colonel. "You
know it is a p.p. bet, and out of my power to do anything. Mr Fortescue
has only two hundred and fifty on it. The rest is made up by gentlemen
who will insist on the terms of the bet being adhered to. You ridiculed
our offer of scratching the bet for a hundred: far better for yourself
had you done so. I should not like any advantage taken of you, and you
ought to have a run for your money. What is it you propose?"

"See, now, Colonel; the only way is, that if you do not hold me to the
day, we can run it off on Sunday."

"Sir! Captain O'Rooney!" hotly interrupted the Colonel; "you must be
mad! Ride a steeple-chase on a Sunday! Do you suppose, sir, any of my
officers would be guilty of such a thing, or that I would allow it?"

"See, now, Colonel," interposed the Captain, "then there is no other
way but Mr Fortescue letting me off altogether. I've five hundred on it
on my own account. I'll give a hundred and scratch it."

"Quite impossible," said the Colonel; "you know I can't do it. I am
really very sorry for you, but stay, there is yet one way, and if I can
manage it the race may yet come off. D----, who has the writ out
against you, does the wine for the mess. Now, will you agree to
this--that if you win, I pay him the four hundred and the balance to
yourself? If you do not win you shall be exactly in the same position
you are now, namely, locked up in your own house."

"Tare an' ages, a capital idea! Colonel, I agree." And it was forthwith
signed and sealed between them.

"I'll send out to you in an hour," said the Colonel, as he took his
departure. "I will write and tell you how it is to be, race or no race.
Depend on me; I'll do all I can."

The Colonel succeeded, and the terms he mentioned were acceded to by
D----, who thought it was his only chance of ever getting a farthing.

"Hang it, gentlemen," said the light-hearted old officer, "we could
have got the money without a race; but I should not have liked it said
of the regiment that we took any advantage. Now, win or lose, everyone
must say that we have behaved pluckily in this matter."

Such a crowd as there was on the road all the way to the hill of
Thonabuckey, where a good view could be had of the race! Cars,
donkey-carts, wiry-looking horses with wiry and sporting squireens on
them crowded the road--all on their way to see the thousand-guinea
steeple-chase between the English soldier gentleman and the famous
Captain O'Rooney.

Such excitement, such running and jostling of the dirty unwashed to get
along! There was the old blind fiddler, Mat Doolan, in a donkey-cart,
and perched on the top of a porter-barrel, scraping away, and
occasionally giving a song.

"Sure it's himself that can bring the music out of the instrument. He
is the best fiddler in the west," sang out one. Then a chorus of voices
would break in asking for various tunes and songs. "Arrah, now, give us
'Croppies lie down.'" "'Wreath the bowl,'" cried another. "Hell to the
bowl, let's 'ave 'Tater, Jack Walsh,' or 'Vinegar Hill,'" demanded a
sturdy ruffian. "No, no; 'The breeze that blows the barley,' 'St
Patrick's day in the morning,' or 'Garry-owen' for me." "Begorra, no;
'Larry before he was stretched,' is my favourite," said a ragged
urchin.

"Hurrah! here comes the Captain," bawled another; and the dirty
unwashed yelled as he passed in a tax-cart driven by a friend.

"Which is the Captain?" demanded a soldier.

"Death! don't you know him? Musha, why that one forenent ye in the
white caubeen and frieze coat. Troth, he's a broth of a boy! devil a
one in Ireland can bate him on Mad Moll across country. Sure he's an
illigant rider."

"Hould yer noise, here comes Squire Gwynne and the ladies in the coach,
and the English soldier gentleman wid 'em. Agra! but he's a mighty fine
young man is that same. Bedad, it's Miss Alice that's looking swate on
him entirely."

It was true: there was Charles Fortescue of the Stiffshire Regiment
going to the scene of action in the Squire's waggonette, and sitting
beside his affianced bride, the beautiful Alice Gwynne with eight
thousand a year the instant she married.

"Hurroo!" shouted the people as the carriage dashed past. "Three cheers
for the Master of Gwynne! And another for the lady!" They were in the
humour to shout at everything and everybody.

The course is reached at last. It is a circular one, and everything has
to be jumped twice; hardly anything is to be seen but dark frowning
walls. Many cars and carriages have got down by the water-jump. There
is no end of youth and beauty. All the county _élite_ are there as
lookers-on. A place has been kept for Mr Gwynne, and also one for the
large waggonette of the officers. Eager spectators are scattered all
over the course, but the big wall and the two water-jumps are the
centre of attraction. The wall is a fearful one, six feet high, built
up of large loose stones. The water-jump is also a pretty good one. A
little mountain stream has been dammed up. It is fifteen feet wide,
four feet deep, and hurdled and staked on the taking off side.

"By Jingo, it is a twister!" said Mr Gwynne, a hunting man, as he
looked at it. "I say, Ally," to his daughter, "you would not like to
ride over that, would you?"

"No, indeed, papa," said the poor girl, with her beautiful eyes full of
tears--she was terribly agitated. "I never shall be able to look at
Charles as he jumps it: it's fearful to look at, and it has to be done
twice too!"

"Never mind, Alice, dear," said Fortescue, "the old horse will carry me
over like a bird. The only difficulty in the whole thing is the big
wall; that is a rattler! but in your colours, of course, I shall get
over all right. Let me do that wall and I am pretty safe, for I know
Screwdriver has the foot of Mad Moll; and these colours, too, they must
not play second fiddle. Cheer up!" and he whispered something that made
the fair girl smile through her tears.

"Now, Fortescue," said George Bradon, taking his friend aside, "let me
give you a little advice: this is your maiden effort: whatever you do
be cool; don't flurry or worry yourself; you have a knowing fellow to
ride against, who is well up to these things. Now the wall is the
principal thing, and my opinion is, he will try and baulk your horse
there; therefore, my boy, don't let him give you a lead over it, _but
lead him_. That you have the speed of the mare there is not a doubt.
Remember, too, you must not go at the wall too fast: keep him well
together, with his hind legs well under him, and pop him over. Now,
with regard to the brook, on no account give him a lead there; if
necessary, walk your horse to it rather than go first. Keep your head,
old fellow, and where you dare, make the pace a cracker, if you can do
it without pumping your horse; the mare is overtrained, and will not
last if she is bustled. I don't know that I can say any more: now, go
and sit by your lady fair till it is time to weigh."

The officers had sent their two cricket tents down, the scoring one for
the scales, and the other for luncheon. The latter one was filled with
gentlemen discussing the merits of the different horses.

"Here comes your nag, Fortescue," said a young sub, running up to the
carriage.

"Oh, what a beauty he is!" said Miss Gwynne. "Who is the little fat man
leading him?"

"That," said Bradon, who had joined them, "is my old stud-groom, one of
the best men in Europe; he says Screwdriver's trained to the hour.
Here, Mason, turn the horse round and show him to the lady."

The old man touched his hat as he did so.

"He's a good 'un, miss," he said, "and nothing but a good 'un; and if
Mr Fortescue rides him patiently, I think that no Mad Moll will have a
chance with him." And touching his hat again he turned and walked the
horse away.

The regimental champion was then immediately surrounded by the men of
the Stiffshire Regiment.

The weighing is over, and Screwdriver mounted. Fortescue's colours are
crimson, with gold braiding. Capt. O'Rooney's are all green. Both
gentlemen look thorough jocks, and sit their horses easily and well;
but there is a look of the older hand about the Captain.

"Who will lay me two to one against Screwdriver?" cried out a
sly-looking little man in a large drab overcoat. "I'll do it to any
amount up to a thousand."

"I'll take you even money for a hundred," said a flashily-dressed man
on a bay horse.

"I want odds, sir," said the little man; "but as I see there is no
betting to be done here, make it two hundred and I'll take you."

"Done," said the other. And the bets were booked.

All is now excitement, for the horses are walking away to the
starting-post. The judge had locked himself up in the little box
allotted to him, which has been lent by the race committee, but little
did he think he would see such a close finish.

"They're off!" is the cry, as the two horses are seen cantering across
a field.

"Fortescue's leading," said Lord Plunger, with his field-glasses to his
eyes.

"Oh, papa, hold me up so that I may see," said the beautiful and
anxious Miss Gwynne.

The eyes of scores were on her as she stood up, for all the gentry were
well aware in what relation she stood to Fortescue.

"Well lepped!" roared the multitude, as the horses topped a wall.

"Capital jumpers both," said the sly-looking little man; "the horse for
my money. Will nobody bet?" he roared out. But all were too eager to
attend to him.

Fortescue is in front, and going at a good rate across some grass. The
first brook is now approached, and the Captain in his turn, leads at a
strong pace. All are anxiously looking to see how Mad Moll will like
it, for she is twisting her head from side to side. Fortescue has taken
a pull at Screwdriver, who is some six lengths behind.

"Hang me if she means jumping!" said Bradon, as he saw the mare's
spiral movements.

But he was wrong: a resolute man and a good one was on her back. She
jumped the brook, but in bad style, her hind legs dropped in, and as
she just righted herself, Fortescue's crimson jacket flashed in the air
and cleared it splendidly, amidst the shouts of hundreds.

"Splendidly jumped!" said Lord Plunger. "Fortescue is a fine horseman,
Bradon, and is riding the horse patiently and well."

"He is," was the quiet reply.

All eyes are now directed to the wall, which the horses are rapidly
approaching. Fortescue is seen to lead at it, and the old horse clears
it at a bound, as did the mare.

"It's all up," said Bradon, as he closes his glasses; "Fortescue will
win in a canter."

"The Captain's down!" screamed a host of voices, as he and the mare
came to grief at the second water-jump.

"May he stick there for the next ten minutes!" muttered the sly little
man, a wish in which not a few joined--a certain fair lady especially.

But he is up and at work again, none the worse. The horses were going
at a great pace, and the jumps were taken with beautiful precision by
both. Bradon began to look anxious, the sly little man fidgety, and
Lord Plunger wore a thoughtful look.

The anxious girl's face was flushed to scarlet with excitement and
emotion, and she trembled fearfully.

"It will be a close thing," said the sly-looking little man; "the mare
is better than I thought."

There were only a few things to be jumped now of any consequence--the
two brooks and the big wall. The horses there turned, ran through an
opening made in the wall, and finished on the flat in front of the
carriages. The brook is now approached for the second time: the mare
comes at it first, jumps it, and topples down on her nose on the
opposite side; the Captain is pitched forward on her ears, but recovers
himself like lightning, and is away again, leading Fortescue at a
terrific pace.

But what is the little sly man doing? As the mare recovers herself he
is seen to dart across the course and pick up something flat, and put
it into his pocket. "By G--d! turn out as it will we are saved," he
muttered. "I'll lay any money against the mare," he screamed out. But
no one took him.

The wall is now approached again; the Captain leads; but as the mare is
about to rise he turns her sharply round and gallops in a different
direction. Screwdriver refuses it too.

"Damnation! I thought it," said Bradon; "there's a blackguard's trick!"

"Oh! poor Charles," ejaculated the beautiful Alice; "my poor colours!"

"The Captain's cleared it!" shouted out the multitude, as the mare was
seen to take the wall splendidly.

"Where's your soldier now?" shouted out a chorus of voices.

"Shure it's myself," said the captain, "could never be licked."

"Most unfortunate!" said the old Colonel, "a dirty trick; and after my
kindness to him, too!"

"The soldier is going at it again!" cried the people; and the horse is
seen to rise gallantly at it, but both horse and rider came down on the
other side.

"Och, wirra wirra, vo vo! Mother of Moses, he's kilt entirely!" bawled
out a countryman; "poor young fellow!"

"Miss Gwynne's fainted," said a young sub, running into the tent for
water.

"By G--d! he's up and at it again," screamed out the sly little man:
"the mare's baked too; look at her tail."

All faces were flushed and eager. The horse was coming along at a
tremendous pace. The captain was at work: his legs could be seen
sending the spurs deeply into her; and he took an anxious look over his
shoulder every now and then.

"The mare's beaten!" resounded on all sides, as she was seen to swerve
in her stride.

"Oh that the finish were only a hundred yards farther!" said Lord
Plunger.

The winning-post is approached. The old horse has not been touched by
Fortescue, whose face is seen, even at that distance, to be deluged
with blood. He holds Screwdriver well in hand; he sees the mare is
flagging.

"Green wins!" "Red wins!" shouts the crowd.

It is an anxious moment. Both horses are seen locked closely together.
But the strain on Screwdriver's jaw is relaxed, and Fortescue is seen
to shake him up; the whip hand is at work, and they pass the post
abreast. The Colonel dashes off, as does the sly little man, and a host
of others.

"What is it?" said the Colonel, as he galloped up.

"A DEAD HEAT," replied the judge.

The sly little man smiles grimly as he hears these words.

"Is Charles hurt, papa?" said the beautiful occupant of the Master of
Gwynne's carriage, opening her eyes languidly, as she rose from her
faint.

"No, dearest; cut a little, I believe. It is a dead heat."

Both horses were now returning to scale.

"Dead heat?" said the Captain. "Well, we must run it off in an hour. I
won't give in."

"Hurt, sir?" inquired old Mason, as he took hold of the old horse's
bridle and led him back.

"A bit of a cut on the forehead," returned Fortescue, "that is all.
Captain O'Rooney pulled his mare round at the wall--little cad!"

"A scoundrel's trick," said the Colonel.

Fortescue goes to weigh in first.

"All right, sir," said the man in charge of the scales.

The Captain now approaches, saddle and saddle-cloths in hand, and seats
himself.

"Eleven stone eleven," said he of the scales, looking at them intently.
"Three pounds short, Captain."

"What?" yelled out O'Rooney. "Look again, man, look again!"

"Eleven stone eleven," replied the clerk.

"Give me my bridle!" roared the Captain. "What the h--ll is the
matter?"

"Ay, give him his bridle!" said the sly-looking little man; "he can
claim a pound for it; but that won't make him right. Look at your
saddle-cloth, sir. You will see it has burst and a three-pounds lead
gone. You did it at the big water-jump the second time, and I picked it
up. Here it is."

Cheer after cheer rent the air as the fact was announced. The soldiers,
of course, went almost frantic.

"Here, come away," said Lord Plunger and Bradon, seizing Charley's arm,
"Get away as quickly as you can. There will be a row. Your horse has
already gone, with seventy or eighty of our men with him. You rode the
race splendidly, old fellow!"

"That he did," said the sly-looking little man.

The Captain had lost the race. He was short by two pounds, allowing him
one for his bridle. The scene of confusion that followed was
indescribable.

Fortescue was taken to the carriage and quickly driven away.

"Ah, Alice!" said he, "I told you I should carry your colours to the
fore."

"Thank God you did so! This is your first and last race, promise me."

The Captain went back to Clough-bally-More Castle; but in a day or two
he was _non est_, and his creditors were done.

The regiment had a jovial night of it. Fortescue's health was drunk in
bumper after bumper; but he was not there to acknowledge the
compliment; some one else had him in charge.

A short time after the Stiffshire were quartered in Manchester, and the
Colonel one day encountered no less a person than Captain O'Rooney.

"See now, Colonel," said the latter, "you must bear me no ill-will. I
did a shabby trick, I'll allow, at the wall, but I was a ruined man.
I'm all right now. I've married a rich cotton-spinner's widow with some
three thousand a year; but it's all settled on her."

Fortescue and Miss Gwynne are long ago married; and at the different
race meetings that they attended they often saw the celebrated Captain
O'Rooney performing; but in all the numerous races he was engaged in,
he never rode--at any rate in a steeple-chase--another DEAD
HEAT.




ONLY THE MARE


When one opens a suspicious-looking envelope and finds something about
"Mr Shopley's respectful compliments" on the inside of the flap, the
chances are that Mr Shopley is hungering for what we have Ovid's
authority for terming _irritamenta malorum_. Not wishing to have
my appetite for breakfast spoiled, I did not pursue my researches into
a communication of this sort which was amongst my letters on a certain
morning in November; but turned over the pile until the familiar
caligraphy of Bertie Peyton caught my eye: for Bertie was Nellie's
brother, and Nellie Peyton, it had been decided, would shortly cease to
be Nellie Peyton; a transformation for which I was the person chiefly
responsible. Bertie's communication was therefore seized with avidity.
It ran as follows:--

    "The Lodge, Holmesdale.

    "MY DEAR CHARLIE,

    "I sincerely hope that you have no important engagements just at
    present, as I want you down here most particularly.

    "You know that there was a small race-meeting at Bibury the other
    day. I rode over on Little Lady, and found a lot of the 14th
    Dragoons there; that conceited young person Blankney amongst the
    number. Now, although Blankley has a very considerable personal
    knowledge of the habits and manners of the ass, he doesn't know
    much about the horse; and for that reason he saw fit to read us a
    lecture on breeding and training, pointing his moral and adorning
    his tale with a reference to my mare--whose pedigree, you know, is
    above suspicion. After, however, he had kindly informed us what a
    thoroughbred horse ought to be, he looked at Little Lady and said,
    'Now I shouldn't think that thing was thoroughbred!' It ended by my
    matching her against that great raw-boned chestnut of his: three
    and a half miles over the steeplechase course, to be run at the
    Holmesdale Meeting, on the 5th December.

    "As you may guess, I didn't want to win or lose a lot of money, and
    when he asked what the match should be for, I suggested '£20
    a-side.' 'Hardly worth while making a fuss for £20!' he said,
    rather sneeringly. '£120, if you like!' I answered, rather angrily,
    hardly meaning what I said; but he pounced on the offer. Of course
    I couldn't retract, and so very stupidly, I plunged deeper into the
    mire, and made several bets with the fellows who were round us.
    They laid me 3 to 1 against the mare, but I stand to lose nearly
    £500.

    "You see now what I want. I ride quite 12 stone, as you know; the
    mare is to carry 11 stone, and you can just manage that nicely. I
    know you'll come if you can, and if you telegraph I'll meet you.

    "Your's ever,

    BERTIE PEYTON.

    "P.S.--Nellie sends love, and hopes to see you soon. No one is
    here, but the aunt is coming shortly."

I was naturally anxious to oblige him, and luckily had nothing to keep
me in town; so that afternoon saw me rapidly speeding southwards, and
the evening, comfortably domiciled at The Lodge.

Bertie, who resided there with his sister, was not a rich man. £500 was
a good deal more than he could afford to lose, and poor little Nellie
was in a great flutter of anxiety and excitement in consequence of her
brother's rashness. As for the mare, she could gallop and jump; and
though we had no means of ascertaining the abilities of Blankney's
chestnut, we had sufficient faith in our Little Lady to enable us to
"come up to the scratch smiling;" and great hopes that we should be
enabled to laugh at the result in strict accordance with the permission
given in the old adage, "Let those laugh who win."

It was not very pleasant to rise at an abnormal hour every morning, and
arrayed in great-coats and comforters sufficient for six people, to
rush rapidly about the country; but it was necessary. I was a little
too heavy, and we could not afford to throw away any weight, nor did I
wish to have my saddle reduced to the size of a cheese-plate, as would
have been my fate had I been unable to reduce myself. Breakfast,
presided over by Nellie, compensated for all matutinal discomforts; and
then she came round to the stables to give the mare an encouraging pat
and a few words of advice and endearment which I verily believe the
gallant little mare understood, for it rubbed its nose against her
shoulder as though it would say, "Just you leave it in my hands--or,
rather, to my feet--and I'll make it all right!" Then we started for
our gallop, Bertie riding a steady old iron-grey hunter.

The fourth of December arrived, and the mare's condition was splendid.
"As fit as a fiddle," was the verdict of Smithers, a veterinary surgeon
who had done a good deal of training in his time, and who superintended
our champion's preparation; and though we were ignorant of the precise
degree of fitness to which fiddles usually attain, he seemed pleased,
and so, consequently, were we. Unfortunately on this morning Bertie's
old hunter proved to be very lame, so I was forced to take my last
gallop by myself; and with visions of success on the morrow, I passed
rapidly through the keen air over the now familiar way; for the course
was within a couple of miles of the house, and so we had the great
advantage of being able to accustom the mare to the very journey she
would have to take.

Bertie was in a field at the back of the stables when I neared home
again. "Come on!" he shouted, pointing to a nasty hog-backed stile,
which separated us. I gave Little Lady her head, and she cantered up to
it, lighting on the other side like a very bird! Bertie didn't speak as
I trotted up to him, but he looked up into my face with a triumphant
smile more eloquent than words.

"You've given her enough, haven't you?" he remarked, patting her neck,
as I dismounted in the yard.

"You've given her enough," usually signifies "you've given her too
much." But I opined not, and we walked round to the house tolerably
well convinced that the approaching banking transactions would be on
the right side of the book.

Despite a walk with Nellie, and the arrival of a pile of music from
town, the afternoon passed rather slowly; perhaps we were too anxious
to be cheerful. To make matters worse, dinner was to be postponed till
past eight, for the aunt was coming, and Nellie was afraid the visitor
would be offended if they did not wait for her.

"You look very bored and tired, sir!" said Nellie pouting prettily; "I
believe you'd yawn if it wasn't rude!"

I assured her that I could not, under any circumstances, be guilty of
such an enormity.

"It's just a quarter past seven. We'll go and meet the carriage, and
then perhaps you'll be able to keep awake until dinner-time!" and so
with a look of dignity which would have been very effective if the
merry smile in her eyes had been less apparent, the little lady swept
out of the room; to return shortly arrayed in furs, and a most
coquettish-looking hat, and the smallest and neatest possible pair of
boots, which in their efforts to appear strong and sturdy only made
their extreme delicacy more decided.

"Come, sleepy boy!" said she, holding out a grey-gloved hand. I rose
submissively, and followed her out of the snug drawing-room to the open
air.

Bertie was outside, smoking.

"We are going to meet the aunt, dear," explained Nellie. "I'm afraid
she'll be cross, because it's so cold."

"She's not quite so inconsequent as that, I should fancy; but it is
cold, and isn't the ground hard!" I said.

"It is hard!" cried Bertie, stamping vigorously. "By Jove! I hope it's
not going to freeze!" and afflicted by the notion--for a hard frost
would have rendered it necessary to postpone the races--he hurried off
to the stables, to consult one of the men who was weather-wise.

Some stone steps led from the terrace in front of the house to the
lawn; at either end of the top-step was a large globe of stone, and on
to one of these thoughtless little Nellie climbed. I stretched out my
hand, fearing that the weather had made it slippery, but before I could
reach her she slipped and fell.

"You rash little person!" I said, expecting that she would spring up
lightly.

"Oh! my foot!" she moaned; and gave a little shriek of pain as she put
it to the ground.

I took her in my arms, and summoning her maid, carried her to the
drawing-room.

"Take off her boot," I said to the girl, but Nellie could not bear to
have her foot touched, and feebly moaned that her arm hurt her.

"Oh! pray send for a doctor, sir!" implored the maid, while Nellie only
breathed heavily, with half-closed eyes; and horribly frightened, I
rushed off, hardly waiting to say a word to the poor little sufferer.

"Whatever is the matter?" Bertie cried, as I burst into the
harness-room.

"Where's the doctor?" I replied, hastily. "Nellie's hurt
herself--sprained her ankle, and hurt her arm--broken it, perhaps!"

"How? When?" he asked.

"There's no time to explain. She slipped down. Where's the doctor?"

"Our doctor is ill, and has no substitute. There's no one nearer than
Lawson, at Oakley, and that's twelve miles, very nearly."

"Then I must ride at once," I reply.

"Saddle my horse as quickly as possible," said Bertie to the groom.

"He's lame, sir, can't move!" the man replied, and I remembered that it
was so.

"Put a saddle on one of the carriage horses--anything so long as
there's no delay."

"They're out, sir! Gone to the station. There's nothing in the
stable--only the mare; and to gallop her to Oakley over the ground as
it is to-night, will pretty well do for her chance to-morrow--to say
nothing of the twelve miles back again. The carriage will be home in
less than an hour, sir," the man remonstrated.

"It may be, you don't know, the trains are so horridly unpunctual.
Saddle the mare, Jarvis, as quickly as you can--every minute may be of
the utmost value!" As Bertie spoke the _faintest_ look of regret
showed itself on his face for a second; for of course he knew that such
a journey would very materially affect, if it did not entirely destroy,
the mare's chance.

Jarvis, who I think had been speculating, very reluctantly took down
the saddle and bridle from their pegs, but I snatched them from his
arms, and assisted by Bertie, was leading her out of the stable in a
very few seconds.

"Hurry on! Never mind the mare--good thing she's in condition," said
Bertie, who only thought now of his sister. "I'll go and see the girl."

"I can cut across the fields, can't I, by the cross roads?" I asked,
settling in the saddle.

"No! no! Keep to the highway; it's safer at night. Go on!" I heard him
call as I went at a gallop down the cruelly hard road.

The ground rang under the mare's feet, and in spite of all my anxiety
for Nellie I could not help feeling one pang of regret for Little Lady,
whose free, bounding action, augured well for what her chances would
have been on the morrow--chances which I felt were rapidly dying out;
for if this journey didn't lame her nothing would. Stones had just been
put down as a matter of course; but there was no time for picking the
way, and taking tight hold of her head we sped on.

About a mile from the Lodge I came to the crossroads. Before me was a
long vista of stone--regular rocks, so imperfectly were they broken: to
the right was the smoother and softer pathway over the fields--perfect
going in comparison to the road. Just over this fence, a hedge, and
with hardly another jump I should come again into the highway, saving
quite two miles by the cut. Bertie had said "Don't," but probably he
had spoken thoughtlessly, and it was evidently the best thing to do,
for the time I saved might be of the greatest value to poor little
suffering Nellie! I pulled up, and drew the mare back to the opposite
hedge. She knew her work thoroughly. Three bounds took her across the
road: she rose--the next moment I was on my back, shot some distance
into the field, and she was struggling up from the ground. There had
been a post and rail whose existence I had not suspected, placed some
six feet from the hedge on the landing side. She sprang up, no legs
were broken; and I, a good deal shaken and confused, rose to my feet,
wondering what to do next. I had not had time to collect my thoughts
when I heard the rattle of a trap on the road; it speedily approached,
and the moonlight revealed the jolly features of old Tom Heathfield, a
friendly farmer.

"Accident, sir?" he asked, pulling up. "What! Mr Vaughan!" as he caught
sight of my face. "What's the---- why! that ain't the mare, sure-_lie_?"

All the neighbourhood was in a ferment of excitement about the races,
and the sight of Little Lady in such a place at such a time struck
horror to the honest old farmer.

"Yes, it is--I'm sorry to say. Miss Peyton has met with an accident. I
was going for the doctor, and unfortunately there was nothing else in
the stable."

"You was going to Oakley, I s'pose, sir? It'll be ruination to the
mare. Miss Peyton hurt herself! I'll bowl over, sir; it won't take
long; this little horse o' mine can trot a good 'un; and I can bring
the doctor with me. The fences, there, is mended with wire. You'd cut
the mare to pieces."

"I can't say how obliged to you I am----"

"Glad of the opportunity of obliging Miss Peyton, sir; she's a real
lady!" He was just starting when he checked himself. "There's a little
public house about a hundred yards further on; if you don't mind
waiting there I'll send Smithers to look at the mare. I pass his house.
All right, sir."

His rough little cob started off at a pace for which I had not given it
credit; and I slowly followed, leading the mare towards the glimmering
light which Heathfield had pointed out. My charge stepped out well, and
I didn't think that there was anything wrong, though glad, of course,
to have a professional opinion.

A man was hanging about the entrance to the public-house, and with his
assistance the mare was bestowed in a kind of shed, half cow-house,
half stable; and as the inside of the establishment did not look by any
means inviting, I lit a cigar and lounged about outside, awaiting the
advent of Smithers.

He didn't arrive; and in the course of wandering to and fro I found
myself against a window. Restlessly I was just moving away when a voice
inside the room repeated the name of _Blankney_. I started, and
turning round, looked in.

It was a small apartment, with a sanded floor, and two persons were
seated on chairs before the fire conversing earnestly. One of them was
a middle-aged man, clad in a brown great-coat with a profusion of
fur-collar and cuffs which it would scarcely be libel to term "mangy."
He was the owner of an unwholesome-looking face, decorated as to the
chin with a straggling crop of bristles which he would have probably
termed an imperial.

"Wust year I ever 'ad!" he exclaimed (and a broken pane in the window
enabled me to hear distinctly). "The Two Thousand 'orse didn't run; got
in deep over the Derby; Hascot was hawful; and though I had a moral for
the Leger, it went down."

His own morals, judging from his appearance and conversation, appeared
to have followed the example of that for the Leger.

"I can't follow your plans about this race down here, though," said his
companion, a younger man, who seemed to hold the first speaker in great
awe despite his confessions of failure. "Don't you say that this young
Blankney's horse can't get the distance?"

"I do. He never was much good, I 'ear; never won nothing, though he's
run in two or three hurdle-races; and since Phil Kelly's been preparing
of 'im for this race he's near about broke down. His legs swell up like
bolsters after his gallops; and he can't get three miles at all, I
don't believe, without he's pulled up and let lean agin something on
the journey to rest hisself."

"And yet you're backing him?"

"And yet I'm backing of him."

"This young Peyton's mare can't be worse?" said the younger man,
interrogatively.

"That mare, it's my belief, would be fancied for the Grand National if
she was entered, and some of the swells saw 'er. She's a real good
'un!" replied the man with the collar.

"I see. You've got at her jockey. You're an artful one, you are."

As the jockey to whom they alluded, I was naturally much interested.

"No, I ain't done that, neither. He's a gentleman, and it's no use
talkin' to such as 'im. They ain't got the sense to take up a good
thing when they see it--though, for the matter o' that, most of the
perfessionals is as bad as the gentlemen. All's fair in love and war,"
says I; "and this 'ere's war."

"Does Blankney know how bad his horse is?"

"No, bless yer! That ain't Phil Kelly's game." (Kelly was, I knew, the
man who had charge of my opponent's horse.)

"Well, then, just explain, will you; for _I_ can't see."

From the recesses of his garment the elder man pulled out a short stick
about fifteen inches in length, at the end of which was a loop of
string; and from another pocket he produced a small paper parcel.

"D'yer know what that is? That's a 'twitch.' D'yer know what that is?
That's medicine. I love this 'ere young feller's mare so much I'm
a-goin' to give it some nicey med'cine myself; and this is the right
stuff. I've been up to the 'ouse to-day, and can find my way into the
stable to-night when it's all quiet. Just slip this loop over 'er lip,
and she'll open 'er mouth. Down goes the pill, and as it goes down the
money goes into my pocket. Them officer fellers and their friends have
been backing Blankney's 'orse; but Phil Kelly will take care that they
hear at the last moment that he's no good. Then they'll rush to lay
odds on the mare--and the mare won't win."

They laughed, and nudged each other in the side, and I felt a mighty
temptation to rush into the room and nudge their heads with my fist.
Little Lady's delicate lips, which Nelly had so often petted, to be
desecrated by the touch of such villains as these!

While struggling to restrain myself a hand was laid on my shoulders,
and, turning round, I saw Smithers. We proceeded to the stable; and I
hastily recounted to him what had happened, and what I had heard, as he
examined the mare by the aid of a bull's-eye lantern. He passed his
hand very carefully over her, whilst I looked on with anxious eyes.

"She's knocked a bit of skin off here, you see." He pointed to a place
a little below her knee, and drawing a small box from his pocket,
anointed the leg. "But she's all right. All right, ain't you, old
lady?" he said, patting her; and his cheerful tone convinced me that he
was satisfied. "We'll lead her home. I'll go with you, sir; and it's
easy to take means to prevent any games to-night."

When we reached home the doctor was there, and pronounced that, with
the exception of a sprained ankle, Nelly had sustained no injury.

Rejoicing exceedingly, we proceeded to the stable; Heathfield, who
heard my story, and who was delighted at the prospect of some fun,
asking permission to accompany us.

"Collars" had doubtless surveyed the premises carefully, for he arrived
about eleven o'clock, and clambered quietly and skilfully into the
hayloft above the stable, after convincing himself that all was quiet
inside. He opened the trap-door, and down came a foot and leg, feeling
about to find a resting-place on the partition which divided Little
Lady's loose box from the other stalls. Bertie and I took hold of the
leg, and assisted him down, to his intense astonishment; while
Heathfield and a groom gave chase to, and ultimately captured his
friend, the watcher on the threshold.

                 *       *       *       *       *

"If I'm well enough to do _anything_ I'm well enough to lie on the
sofa; and there's really _no_ difference between a sofa and an
easy-chair--if my foot is resting--and I'm sure the carriage is
_easier_ than any chair; and it can't matter about my foot being an
inch or two higher or lower--and as for shaking, that's all nonsense.
It's very unkind _indeed_ of you not to want to take me; and if you
won't, directly you've gone I'll get up, and walk about, _and stamp_!"

Thus Nelly, in answer to advice that she should remain at home. How it
ended may easily be guessed; and though we tried to be dignified, as we
drove along, to punish her for her wilfulness, her pathetic little
expressions of sorrow that she should "fall down, and hurt herself, and
be such a trouble to everybody," and child-like assurances that she
would "not do it again," soon made us smile, and forget our
half-pretended displeasure. So with the aunt to take care of her, in
case Bertie and I were insufficient, we reached the course.

The first three races were run and then the card said:--

    3·15 Match, £120 a side, over the Steeple-chase Course, about three
    miles and a half.

        1. Mr Blankney, 14th Dragoons, ch. h. Jibboom, 5 years, 11 st.
        7 lb., rose, black and gold cap.

        2. Mr Peyton, b. m. Little Lady, 6 years, 11 st., sky-blue,
        white cap.

Blankney was sitting on the regimental drag, arrayed in immaculate
boots and breeches, and, after the necessary weighing ceremony had been
gone through he mounted the great Jibboom, which Phil Kelly had been
leading about: the latter gentleman had a rather anxious look on his
face; but Blankney evidently thought he was on a good one, and nodded
confidently to his friends on the drag as he lurched down the course.

Little Lady was brought up to me, Smithers being in close attendance.

"I _shall_ be so glad, if you win," Nellie found opportunity to
whisper.

"What will you give me?" I greedily inquire.

"_Anything_ you ask me," is the reply; and my heart beats high as,
having thrown off my light wrapper and mounted, Little Lady bounds down
the course, and glides easily over the hurdle in front of the stand.

Bertie and Smithers were waiting at the starting-post; and, having
shaken hands with Blankney, to whom Bertie introduced me, I went apart
to exchange the last few sentences with my friends.

Bertie is a trifle pale, but confident; and Smithers seems to have a
large supply of the latter quality. In however high esteem we hold our
own opinions, we are glad of professional advice when it comes to the
push; and I seek instructions.

"No, sir, don't you wait on him. Go away as hard as you can directly
the flag drops. I don't like the look of that chestnut's legs--or,
rather, I do like the look of them for our sakes. Go away as hard as
ever you can; but take it easy at the fences; and, excuse me, sir, but
just let the mare have her head when she jumps, and she'll be all
right. People talk about 'lifting horses at their fences:' I only knew
one man who could do it, and he made mistakes."

I nod; smiling as cheerfully as anxiety will permit me. The flag falls,
and Little Lady skims over the ground, the heavy chestnut thundering
away behind.

Over the first fence--a hedge--and then across a ploughed field; rather
hard going, but not nearly so bad as I expected it would have been: the
mare moving beautifully. Just as I reach the second fence a boy rushes
across the course, baulking us; and before I can set her going again
Jibboom has come up level, and is over into the grass beyond a second
before us; but I shoot past and again take up the running. Before us
are some posts and rails--rather nasty ones; the mare tops them, and
the chestnut hits them hard with all four legs. Over more grass; and in
front, flanked on either side by a crowd of white faces, is the
water-jump. I catch hold of her head and steady her; and then, she
rises, flies through the air, and lands lightly on the other side. A
few seconds after I hear a heavy splash; but when, after jumping the
hurdle into the course, I glance over my shoulder, the chestnut is
still pounding away behind. As I skim along past the stand the first
time round and the line of carriages opposite, I catch sight of a
waving white handkerchief: it is Nellie; and my confused glimpse
imperfectly reveals Bertie and Smithers standing on the box of the
carriage.

I had seen visions of a finish, in which a certain person clad in a
light-blue jacket had shot ahead just in the nick of time, and landed
the race by consummate jockeyship after a neck-and-neck struggle for
the last quarter of a mile. This did not happen, however, for, as I
afterwards learned, the chestnut refused a fence before he had gone
very far, and, having at last been got over, came to grief at the posts
and rails the second time round. Little Lady cantered in alone;
Blankney strolling up some time afterwards.

There is no need to make record of Bertie's delight at the success. We
dined next day at the mess of the 14th, Blankney and his brethren were
excessively friendly, and seemed pleased and satisfied; as most
assuredly were we. Blankney opines that he went rather too fast at the
timber; but a conviction seemed to be gaining ground towards the close
of the evening that he had not gone fast enough at any period of the
race.

And for Nellie? She kept her promise, and granted my request; and very
soon after the ankle was well we required the services of other
horses--grey ones!




HUNTING IN THE MIDLANDS


"Jem Pike has just come round, gentlemen, to say that they will be able
to hunt to-day, after all: and as it's about starting time, and you've
some distance to go, I will, if you wish, gentlemen, order your horses
round."

The announcement, as it came to us over our breakfast at a hostelry
which I will call the Lion, in a market town which I will call
Chippington--a highly convenient hunting rendezvous in the
Midlands--was not a little welcome. Jem Pike was the huntsman of the
pack, and Jem Pike's message was an intimation that the frost of last
night had not destroyed our sport for the day. The morning broke in
what Jem would call a "plaguey ugly fashion:" from an artistic point of
view it had been divine: for hunting purposes it had been execrable. A
thin coating of ice on one's bath indoors, a good stiff hoar frost out,
crystallized trees, and resonant roads--all this was seasonable, very,
and "pretty to look at, too." But it was "bad for riding:" and we had
not come to the Lion at Chippington in order to contemplate the
beauties of nature, but to brace our nerves with the healthy excitement
of the chase. Full of misgivings we descended to breakfast, in hunting
toggery notwithstanding. As the sun shone out with increased brilliance
we began to grow more cheerful. The frost, we said, was nothing, and
all trace of it would be gone before noon. The waiter shook his head
dubiously, suggested that there was a good billiard-table, and enquired
as to the hour at which we would like to dine. But the waiter, as the
event proved, was wrong, and we were still in the middle of breakfast
when the message of the huntsman of the Chippington pack
arrived--exactly what we had each of us said. Of course the frost was
nothing: we had known as much; and now the great thing was to get
breakfast over, and "then to horse away."

After all there is nothing for comfort like the old-fashioned hunting
hotels, and unfortunately they are decreasing in number every year.
Still the Lion at Chippington remains; and I am happy to say that I
know of a few more like the Lion. They are recognisable at a glance.
You may tell them by the lack of nineteenth century filagree decoration
which characterises their exterior, by the cut of the waiters, by the
knowing look of the boots. Snug are their coffee-rooms, luxurious their
beds, genial their whole atmosphere. It is just possible that if you
were to take your wife to such an establishment as the Lion, she would
complain that an aroma of tobacco smoke pervaded the atmosphere. But
the hunting hotel is conspicuously a bachelor's house. Its proprietor,
or proprietress, does not lay himself or herself out for ladies and
ladies' maids. It is their object to make single gentlemen, and
gentlemen who enjoy the temporary felicity of singleness, at home. If
it is your first visit, you are met in a manner which clearly intimates
that you were expected. If you are an old _habitué_ you find that
all your wants are anticipated, and all your peculiar fancies known.
The waiter understands exactly--marvellous is the memory of this race
of men--what you like for breakfast: whether you prefer a "wet fish" or
a "dry:" and recollects to a nicety your particular idea of a dinner.
Under any circumstances a week's hunting is a good and healthy
recreation: but it is difficult to enjoy a week's hunting more
perfectly than in one of these hostelries, which have not, I rejoice
to say, yet been swept away by the advancing tide of modern
improvement.

Of whom did our company consist? We were not a party of Meltonian
squires, such as it would have delighted the famous Nimrod to describe.
We were neither Osbaldestones nor Sir Harry Goodrickes: neither
Myddelton Biddulphs nor Holyoakes. A Warwickshire or an Oxfordshire
hunting field differs very materially, so far as regards its
_personnel_, from a Leicester or a Northamptonshire gathering. The
latter still preserves the memories and the traditions of a past
_régime_, when hunting was confined to country gentlemen, farmers, and
a few rich strangers: the former is typical of the new order of things
under which hunting has ceased to be a class amusement, and has become
a generally popular sport. Now it is not too much to claim for hunting
at the present day this character. The composition of the little band
which on the morning now in question left the Lion Hotel at
Chippington, bound for covert, was no unimportant testimony to this
fact. We were half a dozen in number, and comprised among ourselves a
barrister, a journalist, a doctor, and a couple of Civil servants, who
had allowed themselves a week's holiday, and who, being fond of riding,
had determined to take it in this way. In an average hunting field of
the present day you will discover men of all kinds of professions and
occupations--attorneys, auctioneers, butchers, bakers, innkeepers,
artists, sailors, authors. There is no town in England which has not
more than one pack of hounds in its immediate vicinity; and you will
find that the riders who make up the regular field are inhabitants of
the town--men who are at work four or five days in the week at their
desk or counter, and who hunt the remaining one or two. There is no
greater instrument of social harmony than that of the modern hunting
field: and, it may be added, there is no institution which affords a
healthier opportunity for the ebullition of what may be called the
democratic instincts of human nature. The hunting field is the paradise
of equality: and the only title to recognition is achievement. "Rank,"
says a modern authority on the sport, "has no privilege; and wealth can
afford no protection." Out of the hunting field there may be a wide
gulf which separates peasant from peer, tenant from landlord. But there
is no earthly power which can compel the tenant to give way to the
landlord, or the peasant to the peer, when the scent is good and hounds
are in full cry.

As we get to the bottom of the long and irregularly-paved street which
constitutes the main thoroughfare--indeed, I might add, the entire town
of Chippington--we fall in with other equestrians bound for Branksome
Bushes--the meet fixed for that day--distant not more than two miles
from Chippington itself. There was the chief medical man of the place,
mounted on a very clever horse, the head of the Chippington bank, and
some half-dozen strangers. As we drew near to "the Bushes" we saw that
there had already congregated a very considerable crowd. There were
young ladies, some who had come just to see them throw off, and others
with an expression in their faces,

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