Mr. Sponge's Sporting Tour Part 88

Little Bouncey's horse was still yawning and star-gazing, and Bouncey, being quite unequal to riding him and well-nigh exhausted, 'downed' him against a rubbing-post in the middle of a field, making a 'cannon' with his own and his horse's head, and was immediately the centre of attraction for the panting tail. Bouncey got near a pint of sherry from among them before he recovered from the shock. So anxious were they about him, that not one of them thought of resuming the chase. Even the lagging whips couldn't leave him. George Cheek was presently _hors de combat_ in a hedge, and Watchorn seeing him 'see-sawing,' exclaimed, as he slipped through a gate:

'I'll send your mar to you, you young 'umbug.'

Watchorn would gladly have stopped too, for the fumes of the champagne were dead within him, and the riding was becoming every minute more dangerous.

He trotted on, hoping each jump of brown boots would be the last, and inwardly wis.h.i.+ng the wearer at the devil. Thus he pa.s.sed through a considerable extent of country, over Harrowdale Lords.h.i.+p, or reputed Lords.h.i.+p, past Roundington Tower, down Sloppyside Banks, and on to Cheeseington Green; the severity of his affliction being alone mitigated by the intervention of accommodating roads and lines of field gates. These, however, Mr. Sponge generally declined, and went cras.h.i.+ng on, now over high places, now over low, just as they came in his way, closely followed by the fair Lucy Glitters.

'Well, I never see'd sich a man as that!' exclaimed Watchorn, eyeing Mr.

Sponge clearing a stiff flight of rails, with a gap near at hand. 'Nor woman nouther!' added he, as Miss Glitters did the like. 'Well, I'm dashed if it arn't dangerous!' continued he, thumping his hand against his thick thigh, as the white nearly slipped upon landing. 'F-o-r-r-ard! for-rard!

hoop!' screeched he, as he saw Miss Glitters looking back to see where he was. 'F-o-r-rard! for-rard!' repeated he; adding, in apparent delight, 'My eyes, but we're in for a stinger! Hold up, horse!' roared he, as his horse now went starring up to the knees through a long sheet of ice, squirting the clayey water into his rider's face. 'Hold up!' repeated he, adding, 'I'm dashed if one mightn't as well be cras.h.i.+n' over the Christial Palace as ridin' over a country froze in this way! 'Ord rot it, how cold it is!'

continued he, blowing on his finger-ends; 'I declare my 'ands are quite numb. Well done, old brown bouts!' exclaimed he, as a crash on the right attracted his attention; 'well done, old brown bouts!--broke every bar i'

the gate!' adding, 'but I'll let Mr. Buckram know the way his beautiful horses are 'bused. Well,' continued he, after a long skate down the gra.s.sy side of Ditchburn Lane, 'there's no fun in this--none whatever. Who the deuce would be a huntsman that could be anything else? Dash it! I'd rayther be a hosier--I'd rayther be a 'atter--I'd rayther be an undertaker--I'd rayther be a p.u.s.s.eyite parson--I'd rayther be a pig-jobber--I'd rayther be a besom-maker--I'd rayther be a dog's-meat man--I'd rayther be a cat's-meat man--I'd rayther go about a sellin' of chick-weed and sparrow-gra.s.s!' added he, as his horse nearly slipped up on his haunches.

'Thank 'eavens there's relief at last!' exclaimed he, as on rising Gimmerhog Hill he saw Farmer Saintfoin's southdowns wheeling and cl.u.s.tering, indicative of the fox having pa.s.sed; 'thank 'eavens, there's relief at last!' repeated he, reining up his horse to see the hounds charge them.

Mr. Sponge and Miss Glitters were now in the bottom below, fighting their way across a broad mill-course with a very stiff fence on the taking-off side.

'Hold up!' roared Mr. Sponge, as, having bored a hole through the fence, he found himself on the margin of the water-race. The horse did hold up, and landed him--not without a scramble--on the far side. 'Run him at it, Lucy!'

exclaimed Mr. Sponge, turning his horse half round to his fair companion.

'Run him at it, Lucy!' repeated he; and Lucy fortunately hitting the gap, skimmed o'er the water like a swallow on a summer's eve.

'Well done! you're a trump!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, standing in his stirrups, and holding on by the mane as his horse rose the opposing hill.

He just got up in time to save the muttons; another second and the hounds would have been into them. Holding up his hand to beckon Lucy to stop, he sat eyeing them intently. Many of them had their heads up, and not a few were casting sheep's eyes at the sheep. Some few of the line hunters were persevering with the scent over the greasy ground. It was a critical moment. They cast to the right, then to the left, and again took a wider sweep in advance, returning however towards the sheep, as if they thought them the best spec after all.

'Put 'em to me,' said Mr. Sponge, giving Miss Glitters his whip; 'put 'em to me!' said he, hallooing, 'Yor-geot, hounds!--yor-geot!'--which, being interpreted, means, 'here again, hounds!--here again!'

'Oh, the conceited beggar!' exclaimed Mr. Watchorn to himself, as, disappointed of his finish, he sat feeling his nose, mopping his face, and watching the proceedings. 'Oh, the conceited beggar!' repeated he, adding, 'old 'hogany bouts is _ab_solutely a goin' to kest them.'

Cast them, however, he did, proceeding very cautiously in the direction the hounds seemed to lean. They were on a piece of cold scenting ground, across which they could hardly own the scent.

'Don't hurry 'em!' cried Mr. Sponge to Miss Glitters, who was acting whipper-in with rather unnecessary vigour.

As they got under the lee of the hedge, the scent improved a little, and, from an occasional feathering stern, a hound or two indulged in a whimper, until at length they fairly broke out in a cry. 'I'll lose a shoe,' said Watchorn to himself, looking first at the formidable leap before him, and then to see if there was any one coming up behind. 'I'll lose a shoe,' said he. 'No notion of lippin' of a navigable river--a downright arm of the sea,' added he, getting off.

'Forward! forward!' screeched Mr. Sponge, capping the hounds on, when away they went, heads up and sterns down as before.

'Ay, for-rard! for-rard!' mimicked Mr. Watchorn; adding, 'you're for-rard enough, at all events.'

After running about three-quarters of a mile at best pace, Mr. Sponge viewed the fox crossing a large gra.s.s field with all the steam up he could raise, a few hundred yards ahead of the pack, who were streaming along most beautifully, not viewing, but gradually gaining upon him. At last they broke from scent to view, and presently rolled him over and over among them.

'WHO-HOOP!' screamed Mr. Sponge, throwing himself off his horse and rus.h.i.+ng in amongst them. 'WHO-HOOP!' repeated he, still louder, holding the fox up in grim death above the baying pack.

'Who-hoop!' exclaimed Miss Glitters, reining up in delight alongside the chestnut. 'Who-hoop!' repeated she, diving into the saddle-pocket for her lace-fringed handkerchief.

'Throw me my whip!' cried Mr. Sponge, repelling the attacks of the hounds from behind with his heels. Having got it, he threw the fox on the ground, and clearing a circle, he off with his brush in an instant. 'Tear him and eat him!' cried he, as the pack broke in on the carca.s.s. 'Tear him and eat him!' repeated he, as he made his way up to Miss Glitters with the brush, exclaiming, 'We'll put this in your hat, alongside the c.o.c.k's feathers.'

The fair lady leant towards him, and as he adjusted it becomingly in her hat, looking at her bewitching eyes, her lovely face, and feeling the sweet fragrance of her breath, a something shot through Mr. Sponge's pull-devil, pull-baker coat, his corduroy waistcoat, his Eureka s.h.i.+rt, Angola vest, and penetrated the very c.o.c.kles of his heart. He gave her such a series of smacking kisses as startled her horse and astonished a poacher who happened to be hid in the adjoining hedge.

Sponge was never so happy in his life. He could have stood on his head, or been guilty of any sort of extravagance, short of wasting his money. Oh, he was happy! Oh, he was joyous! He was intoxicated with pleasure. As he eyed his angelic charmer, her l.u.s.trous eyes, her glowing cheeks, her pearly teeth, the bewitching fulness of her elegant _tournure_, and thought of the masterly way she rode the run--above all, of the das.h.i.+ng style in which she charged the mill-race--he felt a something quite different to anything he had experienced with any of the buxom widows or lackadaisical misses whom he could just love or not, according to circ.u.mstances, among whom his previous experience had lain. Miss Glitters, he knew, had nothing, and yet he felt he could not do without her; the puzzlement of his mind was, how the deuce they should manage matters--'make tongue and buckle meet,' as he elegantly phrased it.

It is pleasant to hear a bachelor's pros and cons on the subject of matrimony; how the difficulties of the gentleman out of love vanish or change into advantages with the one in--'Oh, I would never think of marrying without a couple of thousand a year at the _very least_!' exclaims young Fastly. '_I_ can't do without four hunters and a hack. _I_ can't do without a valet. _I_ can't do without a brougham. _I_ must belong to half-a-dozen clubs. _I'll_ not marry any woman who can't keep me comfortable--bachelors can live upon nothing--bachelors are welcome everywhere--very different thing with a wife. Frightful things milliners'

bills--fifty guineas for a dress, twenty for a bonnet--ladies' maids are the very devil--never satisfied--far worse to please than their mistresses.' And between the whiffs of a cigar he hums the old saw--

'Needles and pins, needles and pins, When a man marries his sorrow begins.'

Now take him on the other tack--Fast is smitten.

"Ord hang it! a married man can live on very little,' soliloquizes our friend. A nice lovely creature to keep one at home. Hunting's all humbug; it's only the flash of the thing that makes one follow it. Then the danger far more than counterbalances the pleasure. Awful places one has to ride over, to be sure, or submit to be called "slow." Horrible thing to set up for a horseman, and then have to ride to maintain one's reputation. Will be thankful to give it up altogether. The bays will make capital carriage-horses, and one can often pick up a second-hand carriage as good as new. Shall save no end of money by not having to put "B" to my name in the a.s.sessed tax-payer. One club's as good as a dozen--will give up the Polyanthus and the Sunflower, and the Refuse and the Rag. Ladies' dresses are cheap enough. Saw a beautiful gown t'other day for a guinea. Will start Master Bergamotte. Does nothing for his wages; will scarce clean my boots.

Can get a chap for half what I give him, who'll do double the work. Will make Beans into coachman. What a convenience to have one's wife's maid to sew on one's b.u.t.tons, and keep one's toes in one's stocking-feet! Declare I lose half my things at the was.h.i.+ng for want of marking. Hanged if I won't marry and be respectable--marriage is an honourable state!' And thereupon Tom grows a couple of inches taller in his own conceit.

Though Mr. Sponge's thoughts did not travel in quite such a luxurious first-cla.s.s train as the foregoing, he, Mr. Sponge, being more of a two-s.h.i.+rts-and-a-d.i.c.ky sort of man, yet still the future ways and means weighed upon his mind, and calmed the transports of his present joy. Lucy was an angel! about that there was no dispute. He would make her Mrs.

Sponge at all events. Touring about was very expensive. He could only counterbalance the extravagance of inns by the rigid rule of giving nothing to servants at private houses. He thought a nice airy lodging in the suburbs of London would answer every purpose, while his accurate knowledge of cab-fares would enable Lucy to continue her engagement at the Royal Amphitheatre without incurring the serious overcharges the inexperienced are exposed to. 'Where one can dine, two can dine,' mused Mr. Sponge; 'and I make no doubt we'll manage matters somehow.'

'Twopence for your thoughts!' cried Lucy, trotting up, and touching him gently on the back with her light silver-mounted riding-whip. 'Twopence for your thoughts!' repeated she, as Mr. Sponge sauntered leisurely along, regardless of the bitter cold, followed by such of the hounds as chose to accompany him.

'Ah!' replied he, brightening up; 'I was just thinking what a deuced good run we'd had.'

'Indeed!' pouted the fair lady.

'No, my darling; I was thinking what a very pretty girl you are,' rejoined he, sidling his horse up, and encircling her neat waist with his arm.

A sweet smile dimpled her plump cheeks, and chased the recollection of the former answer away.

It would not be pretty--indeed, we could not pretend to give even the outline of the conversation that followed. It was carried on in such broken and disjointed sentences, eyes and squeezes doing so much more work than words, that even a reporter would have had to draw largely upon his imagination for the substance. Suffice it to say that, though the thermometer was below zero, they never moved out of a foot's pace; the very hounds growing tired of the trail, and slinking off one by one as the opportunity occurred.

A dazzling sun was going down with a blood-red glare, and the partially softened ground was fast resuming its fretwork of frost, as our hero and heroine were seen sauntering up the western avenue to Nonsuch House, as slowly and quietly as if it had been the hottest evening in summer.

'Here's old Coppertops!' exclaimed Captain Seedeybuck, as, turning round in the billiard-room to chalk his cue, he espied them crawling along. 'And Lucy!' added he as he stood watching them.

'How slowly they come!' observed Bob Spangles, going to the window.

'Must have tired their horses,' suggested Captain Quod.

'Just the sort of man to tire a horse,' rejoined Bob Spangles.

'Hate that Sponge,' observed Captain Cut.i.tfat.

'So do I,' replied Captain Quod.

'Well, never mind the beggar! It's you to play!' exclaimed Bob Spangles to Captain Seedeybuck.

But Lady Scattercash, who was observing our friends from her boudoir window, saw with a woman's eye that there was something more than a mere case of tired horses; and, tripping downstairs, she arrived at the front door just as the fair Lucy dropped smilingly from her horse into Mr.

Sponge's extended arms. Hurrying up into the boudoir, Lucy gave her ladys.h.i.+p one of Mr. Sponge's modified kisses, revealing the truth more eloquently than words could convey.

'Oh,' Lady Scattercash was '_so_ glad!' '_so_ delighted!' '_so_ charmed!'

Mr. Sponge was _such_ a _nice_ man, and _so rich_. She was sure he was rich--couldn't hunt if he wasn't. Would advise Lucy to have a good settlement, in case he broke his neck. And pin-money! pin-money was most useful! no husband ever let his wife have enough money. Must forget all about Harry Dacre and Charley Brown, and the swell in the Blues. Must be prudent for the future. Mr. Sponge would never know anything of the past.

Then she reverted to the interesting subject of settlements. 'What had Mr.