Mr. Sponge's Sporting Tour Part 69

'I'll be bund,' cried Sir Harry, 'it was all sham--that he just (hiccup) and excuse for getting into that cover. The old (hiccup) beggar is always at some trick, (hiccup)-ing my foxes or disturbing my covers or something,'

Sir Harry being just enough of a master of hounds to be jealous of the neighbouring ones.

'Well, however, there he was,' continued Mr. Sponge; 'and the first intimation I had of the fact was a great, gruff voice, exclaiming, "Who the d.i.c.kens are you?"

'"Who the d.i.c.kens are you?" replied I.'

'Bravo!' shouted Sir Harry.

'Capital!' exclaimed Seedeybuck.

'Go it, you cripples! Newgate's on fire!' shouted Captain Quod.

'Well, what said he?' asked Sir Harry.

'"They commonly call me the Earl of Scamperdale," roared he, "and those are MY HOUNDS."

'"They're _not_ your hounds," replied I.

'"Whose are they, then?" asked he.

'"Sir Harry Scattercash's, a devilish deal better fellow," replied I.

'"Oh, by Jove!" roared he, "there's an end of everything, Jack," shouted he to old Spraggon, "this gentleman says these are not my hounds!"

'"I'll tell you what it is, my lord," said I, gathering my whip and riding close up as if I was goin' to pitch into him, "I'll tell you what it is; you think, because you're a lord, you may abuse people as you like, but by Jingo you've mistaken your man. I'll not put up with any of your nonsense.

The Sponges are as old a family as the Scamperdales, and I'll fight you any non-hunting day you like with pistols, broadswords, fists or blunder-busses."'

'Well done you! Bravo! that's your sort!' with loud thumping of tables and clapping of hands, resounded from all parts.

'By Jove, fill him up a stiff'un! he deserves a good drink after that!'

exclaimed Sir Harry, pouring Mr. Sponge out a beaker, equal parts brandy and water.

Mr. Sponge immediately became a hero, and was freely admitted into their circle. He was clearly a choice spirit--a trump of the first water--and they only wanted his name to be uncommonly thick with him. As it was, they plied him with victuals and drink, all seeming anxious to bring him up to the same happy state of inebriety as themselves. They talked and they chattered, and they abused Old Scamperdale and Jack Spraggon, and lauded Mr. Sponge up to the skies.

Thus day closed in, with Farmer Peastraw's bright fire shedding its cheering glow over the now encircling group. One would have thought that, with their hearts mellow, and their bodies comfortable, their minds would have turned to that sport in whose honour they sported the scarlet; but no, hunting was never mentioned. They were quite as genteel as Nimrod's swell friends at Melton, who cut it altogether. They rambled from subject to subject, chiefly on indoor and London topics; billiards, betting-offices, Coal Holes, Cremorne, Cider Cellars, Judge and Jury Courts, there being an evident confusion in their minds between the characters of sportsmen and sporting men, or gents as they are called. Mr. Sponge tried hard to get them on the right tack, were it only for the sake of singing the praises of the horse for which he had so often refused three hundred guineas, but he never succeeded in retaining an hearing. Talkers were far more plentiful than listeners.

At last they got to singing, and when men begin to sing, it is a sign that they are either drunk, or have had enough of each other's company. Sir Harry's hiccup, from which he was never wholly free, increased tenfold, and he hiccuped and spluttered at almost every word. His hand, which shook so at starting that it was odds whether he got his gla.s.s to his mouth or his ear, was now steadied, but his glazed eye and green haggard countenance showed at what a fearful sacrifice the temporary steadiness had been obtained. At last his jaw dropped on his chest, his left arm hung listlessly over the back of the chair, and he fell asleep. Captain Quod, too, was overcome, and threw himself full-length on the sofa. Captain Seedeybuck began to talk thick.

Just as they were all about brought to a standstill, the trampling of horses, the rumbling of wheels, and the shrill tw.a.n.g, tw.a.n.g, tw.a.n.g of the now almost forgotten mail horn, roused them from their reveries. It was Sir Harry's drag scouring the country in search of our party. It had been to all the public-houses and beer-shops within a radius of some miles of Nonsuch House, and was now taking a speculative blow through the centre of the circle.

It was a clear frosty night, and the horses' hoofs rang, and the wheels rolled soundly over the hard road, cracking the thin ice, yet hardly sufficiently frozen to prevent a slight upshot from the wheels.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MR. BUGLES PREFERS DANCING TO HUNTING]

Tw.a.n.g, tw.a.n.g, tw.a.n.g, went the horn full upon Farmer Peastraw's house, causing the sleepers to start, and the waking ones to make for the window.

'COACH-A-HOY!' cried Bob Spangles, smas.h.i.+ng a pane in a vain attempt to get the window up. The coachman pulled up at the sound.

'Here we are. Sir Harry!' cried Bob Spangles, into his brother-in-law's ear, but Sir Harry was too far gone; he could not 'come to time.' Presently a footman entered with furred coats, and shawls, and checkered rugs, in which those who were sufficiently sober enveloped themselves, and those who were too far gone were huddled by Peastraw and the man; and amid much hurry and confusion, and jostling for inside seats, the party freighted the coach, and whisked away before Mr. Sponge knew where he was.

When they arrived at Nonsuch House, they found Mr. Bugles exercising the fiddlers by dancing the ladies in turns.

CHAPTER LII

A MOONLIGHT RIDE

The position, then, of Mr. Sponge was this. He was left on a frosty, moonlight night at the door of a strange farmhouse, staring after a receding coach, containing all his recent companions.

'You'll not be goin' wi' 'em, then?' observed Mr. Peastraw, who stood beside him, listening to the shrill notes of the horn dying out in the distance.

'No,' replied Mr. Sponge.

'Rummy lot,' observed Mr. Peastraw, with a shake of the head.

'Are they?' asked Mr. Sponge.

'Very!' replied Mr. Peastraw. 'Be the death of Sir Harry among 'em.'

'Who are they all?' asked Mr. Sponge.

'Rubbis.h.!.+' replied Peastraw with a sneer, diving his hands into the depths of his pockets. 'Well, we'd better go in,' added he, pulling his hands out and rubbing them, to betoken that he felt cold.

Mr. Sponge, not being much of a drinker, was more overcome with what he had taken than a seasoned cask would have been; added to which the keen night air striking upon his heated frame soon sent the liquor into his head. He began to feel queer.

'Well,' said he to his host, 'I think I'd better be going.'

'Where are you bound for?' asked Mr. Peastraw.

'To Puddingpote Bower,' replied Mr. Sponge.

'S-o-o,' observed Mr. Peastraw thoughtfully; 'Mr. Crowdey's--Mr. Jogglebury that was?'

'Yes,' replied Mr. Sponge.

'He is a deuce of a man, that, for breaking people's hedges,' observed Mr.

Peastraw; after a pause, 'he can't see a straight stick of no sort, but he's sure to be at it.'

'He's a great man for walking-sticks,' replied Mr. Sponge, staggering in the direction of the stable in which he put his horse.

The house clock then struck ten.

'She's fast,' observed Mr. Peastraw, fearing his guest might be wanting to stay all night.

'How far will Puddingpote Bower be from here?' asked Mr. Sponge.