Mr. Sponge's Sporting Tour Part 44

In the morning she attired herself in her new light blue satin robe, corsage Albanaise, with a sort of three-quarter sleeves, and muslin under ones--something, we believe, out of the last book of fashion. She also had her hair uncommonly well arranged, and sported a pair of clean primrose-coloured gloves. 'Now for victory,' said she, as she took a parting glance at herself in general, and the hot spot in particular.

Judge of her disgust on meeting her mamma on the staircase at learning that his lordship had got up at six o'clock, and had gone to meet his hounds on the other side of the county. That Baggs had boiled his oatmeal porridge in his bedroom, and his lordship had eaten it as he was dressing.

It may be asked, what was the maid about not to tell her.

The fact is, that ladies'-maids are only numb hands in all that relates to hunting, and though Juliana knew that his lordship was up, she thought he had gone to have his hunt before breakfast, just as the young gentlemen in the last place she lived in used to go and have a bathe.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Baggs, we may add, was a married man, and Juliana and he had not had much conversation.

CHAPTER x.x.xVI

MR. BRAGG'S KENNEL MANAGEMENT

The reader will now have the kindness to consider that Mr. Puffington has undergone his swell huntsman, d.i.c.k Bragg, for three whole years, during which time it was difficult to say whether his winter's service or his summer's impudence was most oppressive. Either way, Mr. Puffington had had enough both of him and the honours of hound-keeping. Mr. Bragg was not a judicious tyrant. He lorded it too much over Mr. Puffington; was too fond of showing himself off, and exposing his master's ignorance before the servants, and field. A stranger would have thought that Mr. Bragg, and not 'Mr. Puff,' as Bragg called him, kept the hounds. Mr. Puffington took it pretty quietly at first, Bragg inundating him with what they did at the Duke of Downeybird's, Lord Reynard's, and the other great places in which he had lived, till he almost made Puff believe that such treatment was a necessary consequence of hound-keeping. Moreover, the cost was heavy, and the promised subscriptions were almost wholly imaginary; even if they had been paid, they would not have covered a quarter of the expense Mr. Bragg ran him to; and worst of all, there was an increasing instead of a diminishing expenditure. Trust a servant for keeping things up to the mark.

All things, however, have an end, and Mr. Bragg began to get to the end of Mr. Puff's patience. As Puff got older he got fonder of his five-pound notes, and began to scrutinize bills and ask questions; to be, as Mr. Bragg said, 'very little of the gentleman'; Bragg, however, being quite one of your 'make-hay-while-the-sun-shines' sort, and knowing too well the style of man to calculate on a lengthened duration of office, just put on the steam of extravagance, and seemed inclined to try how much he could spend for his master. His bills for draft hounds were enormous; he was continually chopping and changing his horses, often almost without consulting his master; he had a perfect museum of saddles and bridles, in which every invention and variety of bit was exhibited; and he had paid as much as twenty pounds to different 'valets' and grooms for invaluable recipes for cleaning leather breeches and gloves. Altogether, Bragg overdid the thing; and when Mr. Puffington, in the solitude of a winter's day, took pen, ink, and paper, and drew out a 'balance sheet,' he found that on the average of six brace of foxes to the season, they had cost him about three hundred pounds a head killing. It was true that Bragg always returned five or six and twenty brace; but that was as between Bragg and the public, as between Bragg and his master the smaller figure was the amount.

Mr. Puffington had had enough of it, and he now thought if he could get Mr.

Sponge (who he still believed to be a sporting author on his travels) to immortalize him, he might retire into privacy, and talk of 'when _I_ kept hounds,' 'when _I_ hunted the country,' 'when _I_ was master of hounds _I_ did this, and _I_ did that,' and fuss, and be important as we often see ex-masters of hounds when they go out with other packs. It was this erroneous impression with regard to Mr. Sponge that took our friend to the meet of Lord Scamperdale's hounds at Scrambleford Green, when he gave Mr.

Sponge a general invitation to visit him before he left the country, an invitation that was as acceptable to Mr. Sponge on his expulsion from Jawleyford Court, as it was agreeable to Mr. Puffington--by opening a route by which he might escape from the penalty of hound-keeping, and the persecution of his huntsman.

The reader will therefore now have the kindness to consider Mr. Puffington in receipt of Mr. Sponge's note, volunteering a visit.

With gay and cheerful steps our friend hurried off to the kennel, to communicate the intelligence to Mr. Bragg of an intended honour that he inwardly hoped would have the effect of extinguishing that great sporting luminary.

Arriving at the kennel, he learned from the old feeder, Jack Horsehide, who, as usual, was sluicing the flags with water, though the weather was wet, that Mr. Bragg was in the house (a house that had been the steward's in the days of the former owner of Hanby House). Thither Mr. Puffington proceeded; and the front door being open he entered, and made for the little parlour on the right. Opening the door without knocking, what should he find but the swell huntsman, Mr. Bragg, full fig, in his cap, best scarlet and leathers, astride a saddle-stand, sitting for his portrait!

'_O, dim it!_' exclaimed Bragg, clasping the front of the stand as if it was a horse, and throwing himself off, an operation that had the effect of bringing the new saddle on which he was seated bang on the floor. 'O, sc-e-e-use me, sir,' seeing it was his master, 'I thought it was my servant; this, sir,' continued he, blushing and looking as foolish as men do when caught getting their hair curled or sitting for their portraits, 'this, sir, is my friend, Mr. Ruddle, the painter, sir--yes, sir--very talented young man, sir--asked me to sit for my portrait, sir--is going to publish a series of portraits of all the best huntsmen in England, sir.'

'And masters of hounds,' interposed Mr. Ruddle, casting a sheep's eye at Mr. Puffington.

'And masters of hounds, sir,' repeated Mr. Bragg; 'yes, sir, and masters of hounds, sir'; Mr. Bragg being still somewhat flurried at the unexpected intrusion.

'Ah, well,' interrupted Mr. Puffington, who was still eager about his mission, 'we'll talk about that after. At present I'm come to tell you,'

continued he, holding up Mr. Sponge's note, 'that we must brush up a little--going to have a visit of inspection from the great Mr. Sponge.'

'Indeed, sir!' replied Mr. Bragg, with the slightest possible touch of his cap, which he still kept on. 'Mr. Sponge, sir!--indeed, sir--Mr. Sponge, sir--pray who may _he_ be, sir?'

'Oh--why--hay--hum--haw--he's Mr. Sponge, you know--been hunting with Lord Scamperdale, you know--great sportsman, in fact--great authority, you know.' 'Indeed--great authority is he--indeed--oh--yes--thinks so p'raps--sc-e-e-use me, sir, but des-say, sir, I've forgot more, sir, than Mr. Sponge ever knew, sir.'

'Well, but you mustn't tell him so,' observed Mr. Puffington, fearful that Bragg might spoil sport.

'Oh, tell him--no,' sneered Bragg, with a jerk of the head; 'tell him--no; I'm not exactly such a donkey as that; on the contrary, I'll make things pleasant, sir--sugar his milk for him, sir, in short, sir.'

'Sugar his milk!' exclaimed Mr. Puffington, who was only a matter-of-fact man; 'sugar his milk! I dare say he takes tea.'

'Well, then, sugar his tea,' replied Bragg, with a smile, adding, 'can 'commodate myself, sir, to circ.u.mstances, sir,' at the same time taking off his cap and setting a chair for his master.

'Thank you, but I'm not going to stay,' replied Mr. Puffington; 'I only came up to let you know who you had to expect, so that you might prepare, you know--have all on the square, you know--best horses--best hounds--best appearance in general, you know.'

'That I'll attend to,' replied Mr. Bragg, with a toss of the head--'that _I'll_ attend to,' repeated he, with an emphasis on the _I'll_, as much as to say, 'Don't you meddle with what doesn't concern you.'

Mr. Puffington would fain have rebuked him for his impertinence, as indeed he often would fain have rebuked him; but Mr. Bragg had so overpowered him with science, and impressed him with the necessity of keeping him--albeit Mr. Puffington was sensible that he killed very few foxes--that, having put up with him so long, he thought it would never do to risk a quarrel, which might lose him the chance of getting rid of him and hounds altogether; therefore, Mr. Puffington, instead of saying, 'You conceited humbug, get out of this,' or indulging in any observations that might lead to controversy, said, with a satisfied, confidential nod of the head:

'I'm sure you will--I'm sure you will,' and took his departure, leaving Mr.

Bragg, to remount the saddle-stand and take the remainder of his sitting.

CHAPTER x.x.xVII

MR. PUFFINGTON'S DOMESTIC ARRANGEMENTS

Perhaps it was fortunate that Mr. Bragg did take the kennel management upon himself, or there is no saying but what with that and the house department, coupled with the usual fussiness of a bachelor, the Sponge visit might have proved too much for our master. The notice of the intended visit was short; and there were invitations to send out, and answers to get, bedrooms to prepare, and culinary arrangements to make--arrangements that people in town, with all their tradespeople at their elbows, can have no idea of the difficulty of effecting in the country. Mr. Puffington was fully employed.

In addition to the parties mentioned as asked in his note to Lord Scamperdale, viz. Washball, Charley Slapp, and Lumpleg, were Parson Blossomnose; Mr. Fossick of the Flat Hat Hunt, who declined--Mr. Crane of Crane Hall; Captain Guano, late of that n.o.ble corps the Spotted Horse Marines; and others who accepted. Mr. Spraggon was a sort of volunteer, at all events an undesired guest, unless his lordship accompanied him. It so happened that the least wanted guest was the first to arrive on the all-important day.

Lord Scamperdale, knowing our friend Jack was not over affluent, had no idea of spoiling him by too much luxury, and as the railway would serve a certain distance in the line of Hanby House, he despatched Jack to the Over-shoes-over-boots station with the dog-cart, and told him he would be sure to find a 'bus, or to get some sort of conveyance at the Squandercash station to take him up to Puffington's; at all events, his lordship added to himself, 'If he doesn't, it'll do him no harm to walk, and he can easily get a boy to carry his bag.'

The latter was the case; for though the station-master a.s.sured Jack, on his arrival at Squandercash, that there was a 'bus, or a mail gig, or a something to every other train, there was nothing in connexion with the one that brought him, nor would he undertake to leave his carpet-bag at Hanby House before breakfast-time the next morning.

[Ill.u.s.tration: JACK PROTESTS AGAINST ALL RAILWAYS]

Jack was highly enraged, and proceeded to squint his eyes inside out, and abuse all railways, and chairmen, and directors, and secretaries, and clerks, and porters, vowing that railways were the greatest nuisances under the sun--that they were a perfect impediment instead of a facility to travelling--and declared that formerly a gentleman had nothing to do but order his four horses, and have them turned out at every stage as he came up, instead of being stopped in the _rid.i.c.klous_ manner he then was; and he strutted and stamped about the station as if he would put a stop to the whole line. His vehemence and big talk operated favourably on the c.o.c.kney station-master, who, thinking he must be a duke, or some great man, began to consider how to get him forwarded. It being only a thinly populated district--though there was a station equal to any mercantile emergency, indeed to the requirements of the whole county--he ran the resources of the immediate neighbourhood through his mind, and at length was obliged to admit--humbly and respectfully--that he really was afraid Martha Muggins's donkey was the only available article.

Jack fumed and bounced at the very mention of such a thing, vowing that it was a downright insult to propose it; and he was so b.u.mptious that the station-master, who had nothing to gain by the transaction, sought the privacy of the electric telegraph office, and left him to vent the balance of his wrath upon the porters.

Of course they could do nothing more than the king of their little colony had suggested; and finding there was no help for it, Mr. Spraggon at last submitted to the humiliation, and set off to follow young Muggins with his bag on the donkey, in his best top-boots, worn under his trousers--an unpleasant operation to any one, but especially to a man like Jack, who preferred wearing his tops out against the flaps of his friends' saddles, rather than his soles by walking upon them. However, necessity said yes; and c.o.c.king his flat hat jauntily on his head, he stuck a cheroot in his mouth, and went smoking and swaggering on, looking--or rather squinting--b.u.mptiously at everybody he met, as much as to say, 'Don't suppose I'm walking from necessity! I've plenty of tin.'

The third cheroot brought Jack and his suite within sight of Hanby House.

Mr. Puffington had about got through all the fuss of his preparations, arranged the billets of the guests and of those scarcely less important personages--their servants, allotted the stables, and rehea.r.s.ed the wines, when a chance glance through the gaily furnished drawing-room window discovered Jack trudging up the trimly kept avenue.

'Here's that nasty Spraggon,' exclaimed he, eyeing Jack dragging his legs along, adding, 'I'll be bound to say he'll never think of wiping his filthy feet if I don't go to meet him.'

So saying, Puffington rushed to the entrance, and crowning himself with a white wide-awake, advanced cheerily to do so.

Jack, who was more used to 'cold shoulder' than cordial reception, squinted and stared with surprise at the unwonted warmth, so different to their last interview, when Jack was fresh out of his clay-hole in the Brick Fields; but not being easily put out of his way, he just took Puff as Puff took him. They talked of Scamperdale, and they talked of Frostyface, and the number of foxes he had killed, the price of corn, and the difference its price made in the keep of hounds and horses. Altogether they were very 'thick.'

'And how's our friend Sponge?' asked Puffington, as the conversation at length began to flag.