Mr. Sponge's Sporting Tour Part 74

'You're wrong there, old buck,' growled Leather, as he heard the foregoing; 'he's half-way to Sir 'Arry's by this time.'

And sure enough, Mr. Sponge was, as none knew better than Leather, who had got him his horse, the hack being indisposed--that is to say, having been out all night with Mr. Leather on a drinking excursion, Leather having just got home in time to receive the purple-coated, bare-footed runner of Nonsuch House, who dropped in, _en pa.s.sant_, to see if there was anything to stow away in his roomy trouser-pockets, and leave word that Sir Harry was going to hunt, and would meet before the house.

Leather, though somewhat muzzy, was sufficiently sober to be able to deliver this message, and acquaint Mr. Sponge with the impossibility of his 'ridin' the 'ack.' Indeed, he truly said that he had 'been hup with him all night, and at one time thought it was all hover with him,' the all-overishness consisting of Mr. Leather being nearly all over the hack's head, in consequence of the animal shying at another drunken man lying across the road.

Mr. Sponge listened to the recital with the indifference of a man who rides hack-horses, and coolly observed that Leather must take on the chestnut, and he would ride the brown to cover.

'Couldn't, sir, couldn't,' replied Leather, with a shake of the head and a twinkle of his roguish, watery grey eyes.

'Why not?' asked Mr. Sponge, who never saw any difficulty.

'Oh, sur,' replied Leather, in a tone of despondency, 'it would be quite unpossible. Consider wot a day the last one was; why, he didn't get to rest till three the next mornin'.'

'It'll only be walking exercise,' observed Mr. Sponge; 'do him good.'

'Better valk the chestnut,' replied Mr. Leather; 'Multum-in-Parvo hasn't 'ad a good day this I don't know wen, and will be all the better of a bucketin'.'

'But I hate crawling to cover on my horse,' replied Mr. Sponge, who liked cantering along with a flourish.

'You'll have to crawl if you ride 'Ercles,' observed Leather, 'if not walk.

Bless you! I've been a-nussin' of him and the 'ack most the 'ole night.'

'Indeed!' replied Mr. Sponge, who began to be alarmed lest his hunting might be brought to an abrupt termination.

'True as I'm 'ere,' rejoined Leather. 'He's just as much off his grub as he vos when he com'd in; never see'd an 'oss more reg'larly dished--more--'

'Well, well,' said Mr. Sponge, interrupting the catalogue of grievances; 'I s'pose I must do as you say--I s'pose I must do as you say: what sort of a day is it?'

'Vy, the day's not a bad day; at least that's to say, it's not a wery haggrivatin' day. I've seen a betterer day, in course; but I've also seen many a much worser day, and days at this time of year, you know, are apt to change--sometimes, in course, for the betterer--sometimes, in course, for the worser.'

'Is it a frost?' snapped Mr. Sponge, tired of his loquacity.

'Is it a frost?' repeated Mr. Leather thoughtfully; 'is it a frost? Vy, no; I should say it _isn't_ a frost--at least, not a frost to 'urt; there may be a little rind on the ground and a little rawness in the hair, but the general concatenation--'

'Hout, tout!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, 'let's have none of your dictionary words.'

Mr. Leather stood silent, twisting his hat about.

The consequence of all this was, that Mr. Sponge determined to ride over to Nonsuch House to breakfast, which would give his horse half an hour in the stable to eat a feed of corn. Accordingly, he desired Leather to bring him his shaving-water, and have the horse ready in the stable in half an hour, whither, in due time, Mr. Sponge emerged by the back door, without encountering any of the family. The ambling piebald looked so crestfallen and woebegone in all the swaddling-clothes in which Leather had got him enveloped, that Mr. Sponge did not care to look at the gallant Hercules, who occupied a temporary loose-box at the far end of the dark stable, lest he might look worse. He, therefore, just mounted Multum-in-Parvo as Leather led him out at the door, and set off without a word.

'Well, hang me, but you are a good judge of weather,' exclaimed Sponge to himself, as he got into the field at the back of the house, and found the horse made little impression on the gra.s.s. '_No frost!_' repeated he, breathing into the air; 'why it's freezing now, out of the sun.'

On getting into Marygold Lane, our friend drew rein, and was for turning back, but the resolute chestnut took the bit between his teeth and shook his head, as if determined to go on.

'Oh, you brute!' growled Mr. Sponge, letting the spurs into his sides with a hearty good-will, which caused the animal to kick, as if he meant to stand on his head. 'Ah, you _will_, will ye?' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, letting the spurs in again as the animal replaced his legs on the ground. Up they went again, if possible higher than before.

The brute was clearly full of mischief, and even if the hounds did not throw off, which there was little prospect of their doing from the appearance of the weather, Mr. Sponge felt that it would be well to get some of the nonsense taken out of him; and, moreover, going to Nonsuch House would give him a chance of establis.h.i.+ng a billet there--a chance that he had been deprived of by Sir Harry's abrupt departure from Farmer Peastraw's. So saying, our friend gathered his horse together, and settling himself in his saddle, made his sound hoofs ring upon the hard road.

'He _may_ hunt,' thought Mr. Sponge, as he rattled along; 'such a rum beggar as Sir Harry may think it fun to go out in a frost. It's hard, too,'

said he, as he saw the poor turnip-pullers enveloped in their thick shawls, and watched them thumping their arms against their sides to drive the cold from their finger-ends.

Multum-in-Parvo was a good, sound-const.i.tutioned horse, hard and firm as a cricket-ball, a horse that would not turn a hair for a trifle even on a hunting morning, let alone on such a thorough chiller as this one was; and Mr. Sponge, after going along at a good round pace, and getting over the ground much quicker than he did when the road was all new to him, and he had to ask his way, at length drew in to see what o'clock it was. It was only half-past nine, and already in the far distance he saw the encircling woods of Nonsuch House.

'Shall be early,' said Mr. Sponge, returning his watch to his waistcoat-pocket, and diving into his cutty coat-pocket for the cigar-case.

Having struck a light, he now laid the rein on the horse's neck and proceeded leisurely along, the animal stepping gaily and throwing its head about as if he was the quietest, most trustworthy nag in the world. If he got there at half-past ten, Mr. Sponge calculated he would have plenty of time to see after his horse, get his own breakfast, and see how the land lay for a billet.

It would be impossible to hunt before twelve; so he went smoking and sauntering along, now wondering whether he would be able to establish a billet, now thinking how he would like to sell Sir Harry a horse, then considering whether he would be likely to pay for him, and enlivening the general reflections by ringing his spurs against his stirrup-irons.

Having pa.s.sed the lodges at the end of the avenue, he c.o.c.ked his hat, twiddled his hair, felt his tie, and arranged for a becoming appearance.

The sudden turn of the road brought him full upon the house. How changed the scene! Instead of the scarlet-coated youths thronging the gravelled ring, flouris.h.i.+ng their scented kerchiefs and hunting-whips--instead of buxom Abigails and handsome mistresses hanging out of the windows, flirting and chatting and ogling, the door was shut, the blinds were down, the shutters closed, and the whole house had the appearance of mourning.

Mr. Sponge reined up involuntarily, startled at the change of scene. What could have happened! Could Sir Harry be dead? Could my lady have eloped?

'Oh, that horrid Bugles!' thought he; 'he looked like a gay deceiver.' And Mr. Sponge felt as if he had sustained a personal injury.

Just as these thoughts were pa.s.sing in his mind, a drowsy, slatternly charwoman, in an old black straw bonnet and grey bed-gown, opened one of the shutters, and throwing up the sash of the window by where Mr. Sponge sat, disclosed the contents of the apartment. The last waxlight was just dying out in the centre of a splendid candelabra on the middle of a table scattered about with claret-jugs, gla.s.ses, decanters, pine-apple tops, grape-dishes, cakes, anchovy-toast plates, devilled biscuit-racks--all the concomitants of a sumptuous entertainment.

'Sir Harry at home?' asked Mr. Sponge, making the woman sensible of his presence, by cracking his whip close to her ear. 'No,' replied the dame gruffly, commencing an a.s.sault upon the nearest chair with a duster.

'Where is he?' asked our friend.

'Bed, to be sure,' replied the woman, in the same tone.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MR. SPONGE'S RED COAT COMMANDS NO RESPECT]

'Bed, to be sure,' repeated Mr. Sponge. 'I don't think there's any 'sure'

in the case. Do you know what o'clock it is?' asked he.

'No,' replied the woman, flopping away at another chair, and arranging the crimson velvet curtains on the holders.

Mr. Sponge was rather nonplussed. His red coat did not command the respect that a red coat generally does. The fact was, they had such queer people in red coats at Nonsuch House, that a red coat was rather an object of suspicion than otherwise.

'Well, but, my good woman,' continued Mr. Sponge, softening his tone, 'can you tell me where I shall find anybody who can tell me anything about the hounds?'

'No,' growled the woman, still flopping, and whisking, and knocking the furniture about.

'I'll remember you for your trouble,' observed Mr. Sponge, diving his right hand into his breeches' pocket.

'Mr. Bottleends be gone to bed,' observed the woman, now ceasing her evolutions, and parting her grisly, disordered tresses, as she advanced and stood staring, with her arms akimbo, out of the window. She was the under-housemaid's deputy; all the servants at Nonsuch House doing the rough of their work by deputy. Lady Scattercash was a _real_ lady, and liked to have the credit of the house maintained, which of course can only be done by letting the upper servants do nothing. 'Mr. Bottleends be gone to bed,'

observed the woman.

'Mr. Bottleends?' repeated Mr. Sponge; 'who's he?'

'The butler, to be sure,' replied she, astonished that any person should have to ask who such an important personage was.

'Can't you call him?' asked Mr. Sponge, still fumbling in his pocket.

'Couldn't, if it was ever so,' replied the dame, smoothing her dirty blue-checked ap.r.o.n with her still dirtier hand.

'Why not?' asked Mr. Sponge.