CHAPTER LXVII

A SHOCKING BAD HAT

JUST as Owen Ashford had about coughed himself out, and Mr. Bunting was thinking of setting him agoing again, a start and half-look round from the horse announced an approach, and presently up trotted a weather-beaten-looking old gentleman, in a shocking bad hat, stained scarlet coat, hard, cracky, uncomfortable-looking cords, and rusty Napoleons, who saluted our hero with a hail fellow well met “Good morning!” as though he had known him all his life. This was Mr. Archy Ellenger, of Kids Hill, a well-known old fox-hunting ferret, who followed the chase more to get into people’s houses and to fasten upon strangers than anything else. He had heard of Mr. Bunting’s arrival, and had come round by Burnfoot Lane, in order to take him in the rear. Archy was quite a different sort of gentleman to the Jug, for he affected hospitality himself, was always upbraiding people for not breakfasting or coming to him overnight—had such a nice piece of crimped cod and a four-year leg of mutton, to which he would have added a woodcock or a dish of mince pies; but if any one was simple enough to come, Archy would show that he was great at the art of evasion. He lived in furnished lodgings, kept a couple of screws and a shandrydan vehicle to attach to their tails, wherein he scoured the country far and near. Having the reputation of wealth, and no one to leave it to, Archy was everybody’s guest, though if many of his hosts had known that he had sunk his wherewithal in an annuity, he would not have been quite so welcome. There are Archy Ellengers in most countries—forward men who fasten themselves on to strangers, and pretend to introduce them to people whom they hardly know themselves.

The tout ensemble, however, was not at all likely to attract such a fastidious gentleman as our friend, and under ordinary circumstances he would have shied him—at all events have shaken him off—before they got to the meet, just as a member of “White’s” gets rid of a rustic at the top of St. James’s Street; but after two days’ solitary confinement there is scarcely anybody that a man can’t put up with. Moreover the horseman’s familiar manner made Mr. Bunting almost think that he had seen him before, but where he couldn’t for the life of him imagine. The face was something like Harry Elstob’s, only more wrinkled; but Harry would be above puckering a crape right up his hat to conceal its shabbiness. The figure was something like Willy Waugh’s, of the Convolvulus Club, but the face didn’t fit; besides, Willy didn’t hunt, so it couldn’t be him. However, there he was, and it was for Mr. Bunting to take him or leave him, as he liked. Mr. Bunting took him. “Good morning,” replied he, returning Mr. Ellenger’s salute, who then followed it up with a “here’s a fine hunting day!”

“It is,” replied Mr. Bunting, “and very acceptable after all the rain.”

“Very,” rejoined Ellenger, reining his badly-clipped dun with the familiar black strip down its back along-side our hero.

Bunting then looked Ellenger over, and Ellenger looked him; Bunting thinking Ellenger was a queer-looking fellow, Ellenger thinking he would like to buy Bunting at his price and sell him at his own.

Bunting then spoke: “How far is it to the meet?— How far is it to the Holly Bush Inn?” asked he.

“Just over the hill—just over the hill,” replied Mr. Ellenger, nodding onward as he spoke, adding, “plenty of time—plenty of time—no fear of being late with the Duke.”

“What, he’s unpunctual, is he?” asked Mr. Bunting.

“Terribly! terribly!” rejoined Mr. Ellenger, adding, “If he was half as keen about beginning as he is about leaving off, he would do.”

“Not much of a sportsman then, I presume,” observed Mr. Bunting.

“Not a bit of one—not a bit of one,” rejoined Mr. Ellenger. “Just keeps hounds for show’s sake—just keeps hounds for show’s sake. Pack of curs and a red-herring would do quite as well for him.”

Mr. Ellenger not having a vote or being otherwise available, was not admissible at Tergiversation Castle; hence his displeasure. He always abused the Duke well behind his back, and toadied him to his face.

Cough, wheeze, grunt, cough, now went Owen Ashford, again boring with his head to the ground.

“Your horse has got a little cold, I think,” observed Mr. Ellenger, when the horse had done.

“I think he has,” replied Mr. Bunting, carelessly, “or something in his throat.”

Cough, wheeze, grunt, cough, went the horse again.

“Cold, I should say,” continued Mr. Ellenger, drily.

Cough, wheeze, grunt, cough, repeated the horse, vehemently.

“Deuced like broken wind,” muttered Mr. Ellenger to himself. “Those stables at Burton St. Leger are not to be depended upon,” observed he, aloud.

“Aren’t they!” replied Mr. Bunting, adding, “What’s the matter with them?”

“No trade—no custom—never aired—cold and damp—uncomfortable. Wish I’d known you’d been coming, I’d have got you some good ones at Stobfield or Oldgate.”

“Wonder who the deuce you are,” again mused Mr. Bunting, looking his companion over—shabby clothes, bad horse, and all. He thought he must have met him before, and yet he couldn’t tell where. It wasn’t old Hetherington of Berkeley Street, and yet he was very like him.

Cough, wheeze, grunt, cough, again went Owen Ashford, in the most summary manner.

“If that horse is not broken-winded, I’m a Dutchman,” observed Mr. Ellenger to himself, eyeing the catch of his flank. However, it was no business of his, and perhaps he was only riding him to cover. “Horse on?” at length asked he, thinking to test it.

“No,” replied Mr. Bunting, “just jogging him on myself.”

“So am I,” rejoined Mr. Ellenger, trying to put a little liveliness into the dun with his off-side spur as he spoke.

Just then two horsemen, one dressed in a bottle-green coat, with a buff vest and white cords, riding a great staring four-year-old bay, the other in fiddle-case boots and red shawl cravat and mufti generally, emerged from Brackenside Lane upon the road our friends were travelling, and were immediately hailed by Ellenger in the patronising way a red-coated man speaks to a dark one.

“Hollo! Jobling!” exclaimed he, addressing the gentleman in green, “what, are you for the fox! How go on the harriers?” Then before the master of Muggers had time to reply, Mr. Ellenger followed up the charge by touching Mr. Bunting on the arm with the crop of his whip, and saying, “Allow me to introduce my friend Mr. Jobling—Mr. Jonathan Jobling, master of the best pack of harriers in the world;” whereupon Mr. Bunting made a bow, and Jobling grinned more complacently than he would have done but for the compliment.

Ellenger then tried to trot Jonathan out, but the hare-hunter saw through him, and without noticing his next inquiry, “How many hares he had killed?” began talking to Mr. Bunting about the wet, the weather, and other indifferent subjects.

The man of the hat then joined the man in mufti, and thus they proceeded in pairs. As they neared the brow of Little Hay Hill, where the Quarry-house toll-bar embraces the four lane ends in its three-half-penny grasp, Mr. Ellenger bellowed to Mr. Jobling, who was then in advance, “I’ve got sixpence, Job! I’ll pay for all!” but when they reached the gate, and Mrs. Fakey stood with extended hand for the money, the sixpence was not to be found. Our hero at last had the pleasure of paying for all.