"Like master like man" is a very old saying, and, like many of those ancient saws, very true. Therefore, in such a sporting country as the Bullshire, with such a sporting Master at the head of affairs, it stands to reason that the field, or at all events the majority of them, should be equally imbued with the love of the chase. Now in every country the mainstay and backbone of the hunt is the Farmer, for without his consent and co-operation fox-hunting would become a thing of the past, and instead of a series of brilliant gallops and a successful season, we should read of a series of actions for trespass and verdicts for damages, carrying costs.
[Pg 47]
Keen sportsmen and true friends to the hunt are the Farmers of Bullshire, so there is little fear of opposition on their part. Indeed, on one occasion they combined to make it very "warm" for a stranger who came among them, and who did not fall in with their views concerning the necessary amount of support to be given to the hounds. The erring member was a man who, having made some money in the chandler line in London, took it into his head that he was cut out for a Farmer, and accordingly took a farm in the centre of the hunt. From the moment he set his foot in the place he gave offence, for the first thing he did was to wire the whole of his fences, and then gave notice that anyone riding across his land would be summoned for trespass and "prosecuted according to law." "He was not a-going to 'ave them beastly dorgs and 'osses a-running over his land, not if he knowed it." A climax, however, was reached when the surly brute assaulted one of the members of the hunt with a pitchfork, and swore he would lay down[Pg 48] poison for the hounds. A meeting was there and then called to discuss the question, and it was unanimously decided to give the individual "what for."
Accordingly, some of the younger Farmers assembled one evening, and by the following morning there was not a trace of wire to be seen nor a gate-post standing in the holding of the ex-chandler. Strange to say, the local police, into whose hands the matter was immediately put, failed to discover the offenders, and the country-side was straightway ringing with the candleman's discomfiture. The next time he went to market not a beast could he sell, and it was the same with everything. He found a strong league against him, none would buy from him and none would sell to him; so at the end of a year he retired in disgust, much to the delight of the conspirators.
No two better representatives of the Bullshire Farmers, old and young, could be found than Simms and his son. The father—hard-working, hard-riding, hard-headed, with fifty[Pg 49] years of practical knowledge on his shoulders—is a firm believer in Church and State and the rotation of crops. With a horror of anything like steam, and a decided prejudice against the School Board, he stands out a true type of the warm-hearted old-fashioned yeoman.
The son, equally hard-working in his way, and still harder perhaps in his riding, is full of what his sire is pleased to call "danged rattletrap notions," born of the Agricultural College. Steam ploughs or "cultivators" he pins his faith on. Church and State he has not much time, he says, to think about. The rotation of crops must be regulated by manuring, and he drives the old man nearly wild by learned treatises on the subject of superphosphates, nitrates, and guano.
Each in his own way is an excellent Farmer—the one of the old school, practical and working in a groove, the other of the new, mechanical and enterprising. In the hunting-field, however, they meet on common ground, and as there are but few fixtures at which both[Pg 50] father and son do not turn up, it may be taken for granted that in this respect their opinions coincide.
Mark the difference in the respective "get-up" of the two as they jog along together to Highfield cross-roads. Old Simms' long-coat is, from constant exposure, more of a brown than the black it originally was; and his hat has evidently had a few words with the hat-brush (the latter having revenged itself by running "heel"), for the silk is all the wrong way, and there is a large dent in the top. He still adheres to a bird's-eye fogle, wound three times round a high white collar, the corners of which only are visible, and contrast strongly with his jovial red face. High jack-boots, and stout cords that have seen the end of many a hard day, complete his attire, while his horse, a real "good 'un," is, like himself, all in the rough. His son, on the contrary, is as neat as a new pin, in a hunting-cap, double-breasted Melton coat, white breeches and tops; and the horse is on a par with his rider.
[Pg 51]
"Ah Simms, I knew you would turn up," say a cluster of sportsmen as the pair arrive at the meet.
"Good morning, gentlemen; bound to be at Highfield, if possible. James here" (pointing to his son) "would never forgive me if I did not come and see his gorse drawn, though I do tell him as how, with all the stinking stuff be puts on the land, there ain't a ghost of a chance of any scent," is the reply.
"Never you fear, father," retorts James; "you wait till they find, and if they don't run as well over my land as any other I'll eat my hat."
"All right, my boy," laughs the old man. "I hope you and your young 'un may come across one of those infernal steam ploughs of yours, like I did this morning, all of a sudden. The mare nearly put me down, old stager as she is, and what that cocktail of yours'll do, Lord knows."
This raises a general laugh against James, in the middle of which the Master rides up.[Pg 52] "Well, James, have you got one for us to-day?" he asks. "Tom tells me that we are sure of a fox in the osiers at the bottom, but if you know of one in the gorse we'll go there first."
"Try the gorse first, Sir John, if you please. I think I can promise one there," replies James Simms, in momentary dread that Tom and the osiers might win the day.
And as Sir John, nodding to the Huntsman, says: "High field Gorse, Tom," James's face beams with pleasure, and, together with his father, he trots off to superintend the arrangements. "A chip of the old block" is the general verdict, as James, sending his "young 'un" at a low post and rails, which he hits hard all round, cuts off a corner, and canters on to the bottom end, where he remains as mute as a sphinx, merely telegraphing to Tom and his father that he was there. Just as the hounds are thrown in, a boy runs up to him and, with a grin, says: "Mayster, ay's theer; I'n sayd 'un. Ay's down at bottom end by t' ould stump."
"All right, Jim, my lad; you keep quiet.[Pg 53] If he's there you shall have a bob," replies James, burning with impatience as he hears no sound save Tom's "Eleu, in, eleu 'ave at 'm. Eugh, boys."
"Blank, by the Lord Harry!" he ejaculates, as two or three hounds appear outside; and, turning to the boy, he asks: "My lad, are you sure you saw a fox?"
"I'n sayd 'un; ay's theer," is the reply. "Ay mun bay up stump."
"Here," cries James, "take my whip, and if you can get him out your bob will be two-and-six."
The boy does not wait a moment, but, heedless of furze, dashes on to where the old ivy-covered stump stands, and is soon swarming up to the top. A crack of the whip, a scuffle, a shout from the lad of "Look out, mayster," and a fine old dog jumps out and makes off right under James's nose.
"Good lad," he says, as the boy returns with his whip; "here, catch." And while James utters a view holloa that would wake[Pg 54] the dead, the lad, having spat upon it for luck, transfers half-a-crown to his pocket.
"All right, Tom; down the field and over the fence to the right. Come on, dad;" and Tom, getting his hounds on the line in a twinkling, the trio are hard at it.
"Pull that young 'un together," says old Simms as they neared the fence; "it's a big 'un." His old mare slips over as if it was child's play. Not so the "young 'un." Going like an express train, he never rises an inch, and James finds himself and the nag somewhat mixed up on the other side.
"That's a buster. No damage, eh?" says Tom.
"Not a bit; for'ard on," replies James, swinging himself into his saddle, and giving his astonished animal a gentle reminder. "It'll teach him to rise next time. There goes the governor," as his father landed in a blind ditch at the next obstacle, but was up and going again in a moment.
At this crisis they are joined by the[Pg 55] Master and a chosen few. "All, this is something like a fox, worthy of the family," laughs Sir John Lappington as he gallops alongside. "Did you breed him on purpose?"
"No, Sir John; I can't quite say that. He's an artful old dodger though, and mother says she's had the feeding of him. He was up in the stump, and a lad fetched him out with my whip," replies Simms the younger as they stride over the grass.
"By gad, fox is bound for your place," says Tom to the father. And Tom is right. Straight as a die he heads for old Simms' farm, and now that they are on his land the son does not forget to chaff his father most unmercifully about the roughness of the fences. A few fields farther on a labourer hollos him, and in the meadow before the house the hounds view, and they run into him almost in the garden.
"Who-whoop," yells the old man, as pleased as Punch. "Now then, missus," as Mrs. Simms comes out to see the end of the[Pg 56] destroyer of her chickens, "ale and beer and anything you have. What is it, gentlemen? Give it a name," as the field one by one jump off their smoking horses. "We must drink the health of this one; it's, as Sir John says, a family fox. Oh, bother the turkeys, missus," as Mrs. S. mutters something about feeding the fox; "you can think of nothing but turkeys. We's all a-dry here;" and he bustles off to fetch out some more of the rare old home-brewed, reappearing in a few minutes with an enormous jug. "Now, Sir John, one more glass. No? Anybody else say anything? Here, Tom, I must have that brush. Best thing we've had this season. Oh, you don't want any more beer, James; you ought to feed on phosphates," as his son holds out a horn to be replenished. "There, bring my horse, lad," to a labourer; and the old man, his face beaming with pleasure, is ready for the fray again.
That evening there is what James calls a "symposium" at the farm, and the run is run over again. "Twenty-five minutes without a[Pg 57] check, and thank you kindly for the missus, self, and son. I only hope we shall be able to find as good a one next time we draw the gorse, and if every one of us has a family fox on his place, the Bullshire need have no fear about sport," is what old Simms says in acknowledging the toast of himself and family, which is drunk with three times three.