CHAPTER LXXVIII

THE BACHELOR BREAKFAST AND BILLY ROUGH’UN

WHEN Mr. Jovey Jessop awoke the next morning and thought over the events of the preceding day, as he lay cool and comfortable in his curtainless bed, for he was no kinder to himself than he was to his Jug, he felt rather sorry that he had said anything to Mr. Bunting about following Mr. Boyston, for, thought Jovey, our hero might have taken a line of his own, and seen the end of the run, whereas, he perhaps thought I told him to follow Tom Boyston for the sake of saving my horse. And being a liberal-minded man, and not liking to do things by halves, Jovey considered how he could put matters right. That was a non-hunting day, but the hounds met at Branforth Bridge on the following one, and the Bold Pioneer would be all the better of the gallop from Brushwood Banks; so he determined if the horse was all right to offer him again to Mr. Bunting. That point decided, he bounded out of bed, and after passing through his bath, proceeded to array himself in a loosely fitting suit of black and green tweed. Though so punctual to his dinner, Mr. Jessop was quite a latitudinarian in the matter of breakfast, and guests just rolled in, and rang or called for theirs whenever they liked, each man having his own tea-pot, and water-pot, eggs, muffin, toast, and so on, after the manner of the Clubs, while there was always a plentiful supply of cold meat and game on the sideboard, and fish, omelette, and frys in a great iron stand before the fire. So breakfasting continued till everybody was done, when the remains were removed, a clean cloth supplied, and the cold meats advanced from the sideboard to the diningtable, for the entertainment of those who might drop in during the day. So long as Mr. Jessop was not obliged to partake, he was always glad to give anybody a luncheon, and the Jug’s appetite being accommodating, he found him useful in the eating as well as in the drinking-way.

Mr. Jessop having made the tour of the stables and found all right as regarded the Bold Pioneer, dropped into the dining-room just as the Jug was inducting Mr. Bunting into the mysteries of the morning meal, and after the usual good mornings, greetings, and common-places about the weather, he gradually broached the handsome proposition about the horse.

Mr. Bunting was surprised, for he had not lived sufficiently among fox-hunters to know their general kindly disposition, and, moreover, had about arranged in his own mind to take Privett Grove in his way home; but the Jug devoting the intervals between munching a large plate of brawn, and washing it down with plentiful libations of tea to seconding Mr. Jessop’s proposition, our hero paused in his resolution, and considered whether staying on might not be as agreeable as spending the evening alone at Burton St. Leger. And as Mr. Jessop seemed to be sincere in what he said, and the Jug occasionally threw in an approving tongue between mouthfuls, Mr. Bunting was not very difficult to overcome. Mr. Jessop then rang or rather shook the bell wire for his own breakfast, oatmeal porridge and a thin rump-steak with fried potatoes pending, which, Monsieur Ragout appeared with his bill of fare for that day, and to receive the compliments of the company for his performance on the preceding one. There is no keeping a French cook up to the collar unless you flatter him well. Cash without compliment won’t do; so Mr. Jessop, and the guest, and the Jug, all joined in his praise. Monsieur having passed his bill of fare with the addition of an omelette soufflée at the suggestion of the Jug, then withdrew, and Mr. Jessop proceeded to enjoy his breakfast in the leisurely way of a man who generally has to hurry it. That being his business day, when he went through his accounts, he then bethought him how he could assist his Jug in getting his guest through the interval. Library there was none, at least there were no books in it; indeed the room was made into a servants’ dormitory, and though Mr. Jessop took in the Times, and the Jug Bell’s Life and the Field, even these with the assistance of the Post Office Directory, which the Jug was much given to studying, would hardly suffice for a stranger.

“What are you going to do to-day, Tom?” now asked our master as he played away at his steak, thinking to see if his coadjutor could help him out with an idea.

“Me, oh, why, I—thought of taking a round with the harriers,” drawled Boyston, as if he had not quite made up his mind on the matter.

“Ah, to be sure! the very thing!” replied Mr. Jessop, gaily turning to Mr. Bunting, and saying, “And why shouldn’t you go?”

“I have no horse,” replied Mr. Bunting; who, indeed, did not care much for hunting if it did not include the scarlet.

“Oh, I’ll find you a horse,” replied Mr. Jessop. “I’ll find you a horse—there’s my little grey Merrylegs, the very thing for harriers—carry you like winking, won’t he Boyston?”

“Capitally,” replied the Jug, still holding on steadily at his breakfast.

“Just order him when you are inclined to go,” then said Mr. Jessop, addressing the Jug.

“I will,” replied he, gulping down his last mouthful of tea; then chucking his napkin away, he arose and stumped leisurely away to the windows with his hands in his side-pockets.

“Fine day,” observed he, after a good vacant stare outside.

“Oh, fine day,” replied Mr. Jessop. “Fine day as can be—I only hope it will keep this way over to-morrow.”

“Well, then I’m ready when you’re ready,” observed the Jug, addressing Mr. Bunting.

“You’d better say, when,” replied our hero.

“No hurry with harriers,” rejoined the Jug, “can always catch them up; but as the day’s fine, we may as well be in the open air as in the house. So what say you to half an hour?”

“So be it,” said Mr. Bunting, whereupon the Jug stumped away to the stables to order the horses.

Now it so happened that the Jug had just got a new horse; “Lofty” his late owner called him on account of his high action, Billy Rough’un the Jug called him, because of his shaking him so. He was a grand horse with a great inclination for the chase, but he was too many for most people, hence he passed from hand to hand at always receding prices, until he came down to the Jug’s figure—a twenty pound note. And having tried various bits upon him with but indifferent success, our friend bethought him that the best way to prevent Billy pulling his arms off was to give him a little more work, so he resolved to treat him to a round with the harriers the day before hunting with the foxhounds whenever he could. To this end he made the acquaintance of our before-mentioned Jonathan Jobling, who, though no great admirer of the red coats in general—certainly not of those with yellow collars to them—yet agreed, out of respect for Mr. Jessop, to send Mr. Boyston his card, provided he did not come out in white cords, of which Jonathan had a mortal aversion, Lord March-hare having ridden over the pride of his heart, the beautiful Bluebell, when so attired. And the Jug having found the first day with the harriers very beneficial upon his new horse, and not being at all fond of a large washing bill, had no difficulty in complying with the terms, as to omitting the white cords.

So much for the rider, now for a word about the horse.

Billy Rough’un was a grand horse, stood sixteen hands, with strength and speed of the first order. He could go as fast through plough as he could upon grass. He was a darkish bay, with a large star, and a white fore foot, capital legs and loins, with a small well set on head. His fault was being too much of a horse, too keen and anxious to be with hounds, which, combined with a very high rough action, put as it were two days’ work into one for his rider. Indeed if Billy was not regularly worked there was no riding him, and he had nearly shaken the hearts out of half-a-dozen people before the Jug got him. Not that Billy had any vice in him, it was only his impetuosity that made him unpopular. He was a sort of horse that a looker on liked better than the person that was on him. There is no secret so close as that between a rider and his horse.

When Billy, then called Lofty, stepped out of Mr. Blandisher the dealer’s yard, he was a hundred and ninety guineas’ worth, a ten pound note having somehow slipped off his two hundred guinea price during the transaction, and though undoubtedly rough, yet when not in his excited knock-his-knee-against-his-tooth action, by no means an unpleasant horse to ride. He was then the property of Mr. George Dallimore, a weakly constituted gentleman, who had been recommended horse exercise on account of his health; and when George first appeared at Weston Wood side with Lord Furzebrake’s hounds, Lofty was pronounced by the cognoscenti to be a deuced nice sporting-looking nag. George, however, had not been on him half an hour, before the bay horse had been changed into a white one, and finding as soon as the fox broke away that he must be first (which was by no means George’s place) or no where, he thought he had better be no where, and so went home. Blandisher, however, was a kind man, and readily exchanged him for an easy oily going gray,—a sort of animal that would do for a Roseberry Rocks riding-master, and sold Lofty again the next day for about his old figure, Blandisher making an uncommonly handsome profit by the transaction. The next purchaser was one of the same sort, a light man who fancied himself heavy, and wanted something above his weight, which Lofty certainly was, stotting him up and down like a parched pea on a drumhead, tiring him completely and sending him asleep almost as soon as the cloth was drawn after dinner. He then sold him to a youth, with whom Lofty, certainly under great provocation, ran away, whereupon he was pronounced vicious, and quickly came down to the Jug’s price, who devised the expedient for curing him we have already mentioned. Billy, however, had no vice in him, it was sheer love of hunting and disgust at being ridden by tailors who had not the sense to appreciate his spirit. If he let people down at little places, it was only because they never gave him a chance at big ones. It was no use trying to deceive Billy Rough’un about hunting—no use sending him on alone with a lad in a jacket and trousers, as if he were going to exercise—he knew as well as the genius who saddled him what he was going to do. The first red coat he saw on the road set him on grinding his teeth, fretting and trying to be on—what he wanted was to be with the hounds. Even on the present occasion, when the Jug turned out in his old round-crowned deer-stalking hat, brown sea-side jacket and long leather gaiters, the horse felt by the hunting martingal on his shoulders what he was going to do. And when little Merrylegs came prancing out of the stable for the dandified Mr. Bunting to mount, Billy gave a half squeak, as much as to say, now we’ll have some fun together, you and I.

“W-h-o-a-y!” cried the Jug, hoisting himself on, adding, “I’ll take the nonsense out of you when I get you on to the Downs.” So saying, he drew reins and piloted our hero out of the yard.