There is no better-known individual in the whole of the Bullshire Hunt perhaps than Jack Whistler the Runner, or, as is he more commonly called, "Jumping Jack." His antecedents are somewhat obscure, and various contradictory stories are told as to who he is and what he was; but his presence at the end of a long run, or in any spot where he thinks he may have the chance of earning an honest shilling, is a positive certainty.
How he manages to turn up at the right moment is only another of the mysteries which surround him; but the fact remains the same,[Pg 226] that Jack has solved the problem of "how to be in two places at once" most satisfactorily. No matter how long the day has been, or how many miles he has to go back to the place where he is supposed to have his home, the next day you will see him at the meet as fresh as paint, in his old pink-and-brown leather gaiters, with the same keen eye and half-saucy smile on his face as he doffs his well-worn velvet cap at your approach.
Full of quaint humour is Jack, with many a story of sport, and many a reminiscence of flood and field, which he delights in relating to anyone he can get to listen to him.
"Ger on with yer," he will say to a crowd of gaping rustics; "ger on with yer—call last Wednesday's a run? Why, bless yer, I remember in the old Squire's time, when we run from Finchley cross-roads to Ipply Gorse, better nor five-and-twenty mile, and old Mayster Simpson got up to his neck in the brook, and I stood on the bank fit to bust mysen with larfin, and wouldna pull un out[Pg 227] under two half-crowns. Ah! them was days, I can tell yer."
And then, some mounted cavalier arriving, off goes the hunting-cap, and he accosts the sportsman with "Morning, captin'; fine scenting day; hold your horse? thankee, sir," all in one breath.
Not a hound in the pack but what knows him and is glad to see him; and he can call them all by name, and give you their pedigree without a mistake. As old Tom says: "Where he picks up his knowledge Lord knows, but 'e's never wrong, and, by Guy, 'e's a puzzler to be sure."
It is getting near the end of the season, and the weather is just a trifle warm, as old Tom with the hounds overtakes Jack Whistler making his way towards the meet at Fairleigh. There is a breakfast there, and Jack likes to be in time on those occasions, for he knows that he will earn many a sixpence before the actual work begins, besides getting his day's food and drink gratis.
[Pg 228]
"Holloa, old man, what have yer got there? going a-fishing?" exclaims Tom as he comes up with the pedestrian. "What's that thing for?" pointing to a light pole that Jack is balancing on his shoulder.
"Fishing be blowed," is the reply, "it's my jumper. Don't yer see it's a bit 'ot, and old Riley" (a fellow-runner in a neighbouring pack) "put me up to the tip last week as ever was. He says, says he: 'Why don't yer have a pole made? it ain't much to carry, and you can get over hanythink with it.' So I've had this fettled up, and I've been practising a bit with it, and I can go fine now I can tell yer."
"Oh, that's it, is it?" says Tom. "Well, I should a thought it were more trouble than it were worth carrying a great fishing-rod of a thing like that about."
"Ger out," retorts Jack; "it ain't nothing when yer used to it. I thought it were a new-fangled notion at first, and I came nigh breaking my neck two or three times over a pigsty wall afore I got into it; but look'ee 'ere, it's as[Pg 229] easy as shelling peas;" and Jack proceeds to show Tom his prowess in the noble art of saltation.
Taking a short run, with a "Ger back, hounds," he essays to top the fence out of the road; but, alas, to the intense amusement of Tom and the two Whips, his pole sinks into some soft ground, and poor Jack falls all of a heap into the wet ditch on the far side, uttering the while exclamations the reverse of complimentary against the treacherous friend of his travels that had so basely betrayed him.
When he appears, scratched and muddy, in the road again, as soon as Tom can stop laughing he advises him to "leave the bloomin' pole where it is, and not go cutting any more capers of that sort." But Jack's dander is up, and his only reply is to shoulder his weapon and walk on. Presently they arrive at the fixture, and Mr. Whistler's hands are quite full. Indeed, what between laying in a cargo for himself and looking after horses while their[Pg 230] owners do the like, he has not much time to talk.
Then comes the business of altering stirrups, tightening girths, and looking after his tips. A marvellous memory does Jack show in this latter respect. Vain indeed is it to try and put on an air of unconcern at his approach, as if you had never seen him before, or as if you had entirely forgotten the service he rendered you when you got that spill last week, and he recovered your horse for you on the promise of half-a-crown.
Jack remembers the circumstance well and the promise better, and he will sidle up to you with a smile, and say: "Morning cap'n. None the worse for the fall? Have not seen yer out since. Hope you won't forget Jack;" and then, having received his recompense, his quick eye catches sight of another debtor, and with a "Thank'ee kindly, sir," he is off to collect more dues.
What he likes best is being taken as a pilot by some comparative stranger to the[Pg 231] country, whose heart is not placed in that positio............