CHAPTER LVIII

ANOTHER LAST DAY

IGG having curled himself up in his clothes on the kitchen-table, awoke with the first peep of day. He was at the stables betimes, and dressed and fed the horses himself. Mr. Jorrocks was equally early, having been greatly tormented by the old customer, who had appeared to him in his dreams in a variety of ways—now running between his legs and upsetting him, now nearly blinding him with a whisk over his eyes from his sandy brush, again as the chairman of a convival meeting of foxes who did nothing but laugh and make finger fans to their noses at him, crying, “Ah, cut his tail! Cut his tail!” and mimicking his holloas and hunting noises: next sitting on a high stool, in his own counting-house, writing a letter to Bell’s Life and the Field declaring he was the worst sportsman and greatest humbug that ever got upon a horse; anon as a bull, with a tremendous fox’s brush, charging him, as Gollarfield’s bull charged him on the Hardpye Hill day, which ended as usual in our Master flooring Mrs. Jorrocks, who vowed she would appeal to Dodson and the court for the protection of injured ribs. Altogether Jorrocks was sadly put out, and was full of envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness against the old customer. Charley Stobbs, to whom Pigg had sent word by Betsy, appearing just as our Master got down, rather encouraged him to hope for the best, and sent him stumping to the door in better spirits.

It was a lovely morning! Mild and balmy—the rain had ceased, and the sun rose with unclouded brilliancy, drawing forth the lately reluctant leaves, and opening the wild flowers to its earliest rays. The drops hung like diamonds on the bushes, and all nature seemed refreshed.

“This be more like the thing,” said Mr. Jorrocks, hoisting himself into his saddle with a swag that made old Arterxerxes grunt again; “if there arn’t a scent this mornin’, there arn’t no hallegators;’ with which wise observation he turned his horse towards the kennel.

“Turn ’em all out,” said he to Pigg, adding aloud to himself, “We’ll ’ave a good cry at all ewents.”

The hounds partook of the general hilarity. Out they rushed with joyous cry, and set the horses capering with their frolicking.

The dry and dusty roads were watered—the hedge-rows were filled with the green luxuriance of spring, and the golden poplar stood in bright relief among the dark green pines and yews. If a fox-hunter can welcome spring, such a day would earn his adoration. All nature was alive, but hardly yet had man appeared to greet it. Presently the labourers began to appear at their cottages. The undressed children popped about the doors, cocks crew lustily, the lambs gambolled about the ewes, and indignant ganders flew at the hounds’ and horses’ heels.

“Sink them goslin’s!” said Pigg, eyeing a whole string of them: “ar wish fox had ivery one o’ you.”

Our friends’ frequent visits having made them well acquainted with the way to the valuable forest, they popped through gates and gaps, and made short cuts through fields and farms, that greatly reduced the distance they travelled on the first occasion. After a couple of hours’ steady butter and eggs bumping, they found themselves on Saddlecombe Hill, overlooking an oak-clad ravine that gradually lost itself in the general sterility of the wide forest. A slight change was just visible on the oak-buds; the young birch had got its plum-coloured tinge, while here and there the spiry larch in verdant green, or the dark spruce or darker fir, broke the massive heaviness of the forest.

Jorrocks pulled up, as well to reconnoitre as to see if he could hit off the smuggler’s cave, which he had never been able to do, though he made as diligent search as the agitation of pursuing the old customer would allow. He now eyed the sun-bright forest far and near, north, south, east and west, but identifying feature he saw none. It might be anywhere.

The hounds presently interrupted the reverie, by setting up the most melodious cry; and our Master, awakening to a sense of what he had come out for, proceeded to distribute his forces as he thought best for circumventing the old customer.

“You take the far side, and cross by the crag,” said Mr. Jorrocks to Pigg; “Charley will keep on this, and ven I hears you twang th’ ’orn, I’ll throw th’ ’ounds into cover;” saying which, Mr. Jorrocks turned short round, and Stobbs assumed the place that Pigg had just occupied in the rear.

“Dash it, wot a mornin’ it is!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, turning up his jolly face, beaming with exultation; “wot a many delicious moments one loses by smooterin i’ bed!—dash my vig! if I won’t get up at five every mornin’ as long as I live! Glad I’ve got on my cords ’stead o’ my shags, for it’s goin’ to be werry ’ot,” continued he, looking down on a pair of second or third-hand whites. “Yooi over, in there!” to the hounds, with a wave of his hand, as Pigg’s horn announced he had taken his station.

In the hounds flew, with a chirp and a whimper; and the crack of Pigg’s whip on the far side sounded like a gun in the silence around.

“Yooi, spread and try for him, my beauties!” holloaed Mr. Jorrocks, riding into cover among the stunted underwood.

The pack spread, and try in all directions—now here, now there, now whiffing with curious nose round the hollies, and now trying up the rides.

“There’s a touch of a fox,” said Mr. Jorrocks to himself, as Priestess put her nose to the ground, and ran mute across the road, lashing her sides with her stern. A gentle whimper followed, and Mr. Jorrocks cheered her to the echo. “The warmint’s astir,” said he; “that’s jest where we hit on him last time.” Now Priestess speaks again in fuller and deeper notes, and Ravager and Lavender, and the rest of the pack, rush to the spot. How beautifully they flourish—eager, and yet none will go an inch without the scent.

“Vell done, old ’ooman! speak to him again!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, delighted to hear the old bitch’s tongue; “a fox for a pund; ten if you like!”

The pack have now got together, and all are busy on the scent. The villain has been astir early, and the drag is rather weak.

“Dash my vig, he’s been here,” says Mr. Jorrocks, eyeing some feathers sticking in a bush; “there’s three and sixpence at least for an old fat ’en,” wondering whether he would have to pay for it or not.

The hounds strike forward, and getting upon a grassy ride, carry the scent with a good head for some quarter of a mile, to the ecstatic delight of Mr. Jorrocks, who bumps along, listening to their music, and hoping it might never cease.

A check! They’ve overrun the scent. “Hie back!” cries Mr. Jorrocks, turning his horse round; “gone to the low crags, I’ll be bund—that’s the way he always goes; I’ll pop up ’ill, and stare him out o’ countenance, if he takes his old line;” saying which, Mr. Jorrocks stuck spurs into Arterxerxes, and, amid the grunts of the horse and the rumbling of the loose stones, succeeded in gaining the rising ground, while the hounds worked along the brook below.

The chorus grows louder! The rocky dell resounds the cry a hundredfold! The tawny owl, scared from his ivied crag, faces the sun in a Bacchanalian sort of flight; wood-pigeons wing their timid way, the magpie is on high, and the jay’s grating screech adds wildness to the scene. What a crash! Warm in the woody dell, half-circled by the winding brook, where rising hills ward off the wintry winds, the old customer had curled himself up to sleep till evening’s dusk invited him back to the hen-roost. That outburst of melody proclaims that he is unkennelled before the pack!

Mr. Jorrocks, having gained his point, places himself behind a gnarled and knotted ivy-covered mountain ash, whose hollow trunk tells of ages long gone by, through a hole in which he commands a view of the grass ride towards the rising ground, upon which the “old customer” generally wends his way. There, as Mr. Jorrocks sat, with anxious eyes and ears, devouring the rich melody, he sees what, at first sight, looked like a hare coming up at a stealthy, stopping, listening sort of pace; but a second glance shows that it is a fox—and not only a fox, but his identical old friend, who has led him so many dances, and whose lightening fur tells of many seasons’ wickedness.

Mr. Jorrocks can hardly contain himself, and but for his old expedient of counting twenty, would infallibly have halloaed.

The fox comes close up, but is so busy with his own affairs, that he has not time to look about; and before Mr. Jorrocks has counted nine, the fox has made a calculation that the hounds are too near for him to break, so he just turns short into the wood before they get a view. Up they come, frantic for blood, and dash into the field, in spite of Mr. Jorrocks’s efforts to turn them, who, hat in hand, sweeps towards the line the fox has taken. A momentary check ensues, and the hounds return as if ashamed of their obstinacy. Now they are on him again, and Mr. Jorrocks thrusts his hat upon his brow, runs the fox’s tooth of his hat-string through the button-hole of his roomy coat, gathers up his reins, and bustles away outside the cover, in a state of the utmost excitement—half frantic, in fact! There is a tremendous scent, and Reynard is puzzled whether to fly or stay. He tries the opposite side, but Pigg, who is planted on a hill, heads him, and he is beat off his line.

The hounds gain upon him, and there is nothing left but a bold venture up the middle, so, taking the bed of the brook, he endeavours to baffle his followers by the water. Now they splash after him, the echoing banks and yew-studded cliffs resounding to their cry. The dell narrows towards the west, and Mr. Jorrocks rides forward to view him away. A countryman yoking his plough is before him, and with hat high in air, “Talliho’s” till he’s hoarse. Pigg’s horn on one side, and Jorrocks’s on the other, get the hounds out in a crack; the countryman mounts one of his carters, the other runs away with the plough, and the three sportsmen are as near mad as anything can possibly be. It’s ding, dong, hey away pop with them all!

The fallows carry a little, but there’s a rare scent, and for two miles of ill-enclosed land Reynard is scarcely a field before the hounds. Now Pigg views him! Now Jorrocks! Now Charlie! Now Pigg again! Thirty couple of hounds lengthen as they go, but there is no Pomponius Ego to tell. The fox falls back at a wall, and the hounds are in the same field. He tries again—now he’s over! The hounds follow, and dash forward, but the fox has turned short up the inside of the wall, and gains a momentary respite. Now they are on him again! They view him through the gateway beyond: he rolls as he goes! Another moment, and they pull him down in the middle of a large grass field!

“Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!” exclaims Mr. Jorrocks, rolling of his horse, and diving into the middle of the pack, and snatching the fox, which old Thunderer resents by seizing him behind and tearing his white cords half-way down his legs. “Hooray!” repeats he, kicking out behind, and holding the fox over his head, his linen flying out, and his enthusiastic old face all beaming with joy.

“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” exclaims he, dancing about with it over his head; “if ever there was a warmint properly dusted, it’s you,” looking the fox full in the face; “you’ve been a hugly customer to me, dash my vig if you havn’t;” and thereupon Mr. Jorrocks resumed his capers, singing,—

“Sink ar’s left mar Jack-a-legs ahint,” says Pigg, wanting to cut off the fox’s brush. “Has ony on ye getten a knife?”

The cart-horsed countryman has one, and Jorrocks holds the fox, while Pigg performs the last rites of the chase.

With whoops and holloas Jorrocks throws the carcase high in air, which, falling among the baying pack, is torn to pieces in a minute.

Joy, delightful joy, is theirs, clouded by but one reflection—that that was the last day of the season.

They re-enter Handley Cross by half-past nine, and at ten sit down to breakfast, Pigg getting such a tuck-out as he hadn’t had since he left his “coosin Deavilboger’s.”