Free Mr Facey Romford's Hounds by R S Surtees

with a semi-touch of the cap.
    â€œDo you,” retorted Facey, “Devilish bad plan—I’d advertise an hour, and keep to it.”
    â€œWell, sir, what you please, sir,” rejoined Lotherington, in a more subdued tone, for there was a determination about Facey that as good as said he meant to be master.
    â€œBe off, then,” said Facey, getting the Dragon of Wantley short by the head, giving him at the same time a refresher on the shoulder with the pig-jobber whip, and a touch of the spur in the flank. This then gave the field, who had only hitherto enjoyed a side and a back view of our friend, the benefit of a front one also, thus exhibiting his watchful pig eyes, a peculiar expression of countenance, his battered hat and shabby shirt. No one knows how ungentlemanly he can look, until he has seen himself in a shocking bad hat. The field drew into line as he passed with the hounds to have a good stare, which Facey returned with a scrutinising sidelong glance at them all, embracing both riders and horses, with a running commentary in his own mind, as to which were the fifties, which the twenties, and which the ten pound subscribers to the hounds. But there was no salute or recognition on either side, and as the Dragon of Wantley was well known, there was great curiosity excited on the subject. “Where the deuce did he get the Dragon of Wantley?” asked one. “Did you ever see such a coat?” asked another. “Bought it off the pegs, I should think,” observed a third. “Boots and breeches are a dead match,” observed a fourth. “How much for the lot?” exclaimed a fifth. “Hard-bitten-looking beggar,” observed a sixth. “Let’s be on and see what he does,” added another, spurring in front and thus leading the field.

X
O AKENSHAW W OOD
    I F J ONATHAN L OTHERINGTON THOUGHT LITTLE of Mr Romford in his buttoned boots, he thought less of him now that he saw him in his hunting costume mounted on the familiar Dragon of Wantley. He hadn’t seen such a coat, such a hat, such breeches and boots, he didn’t know when. They looked fitter for an earth-stopper, or a cad down Tattersall’s entry, than for a master of hounds. Jonathan on his part was spicy and gay, having on his first-class coat, first-class cap, first-class everything, in addition to which he was mounted on his best horse, North Star, and sat as corkily in his stirrups as a man of his years and weight could do. In fact there was a little affected activity in his movements, as if he wished to make Mr Romford believe he was young. But for Facey’s impudence at the kennel, Jonathan would rather have pitied him riding solitarily along with nobody noticing him; as it was, he thought to patronise him through the medium of his horse.
    â€œGot Mr Dibble’s old hoss, I see,” observed he, looking the Dragon of Wantley over.
    â€œAy, what sort of a nag is he?” asked Romford, giving the horse a familiar slap on the ribs with his hand.
    â€œGood hoss—gallops well,” replied Jonathan. “Loups too.”
    This was satisfactory to Romford, who hoped to put both qualities to the test before evening. So they trotted on familiarly as before, each party examining the other critically, Jonathan thinking there wouldn’t be much credit in serving buttoned boots, buttoned boots thinking Jonathan was not at all like a man for his money.
    â€œP’raps you’d like to see me find my fox,” now said Jonathan, consequentially, as they neared the little bridle gate leading into the east end of Oakenshaw Wood.
    â€œGo along,” replied Facey, and at a wave of the hand away went the hounds, distributing themselves equably over the ground, sniffing and snuffing and questing as they went. Then Jonathan, who had a musical voice and could find a fox if he couldn’t hunt one, began yoicking and cheering and cracking his whip, little doubting that buttoned