A man of immense importance is Mr. J. Boulter of The Grange, quite as essential to the welfare of the Bullshire Hunt as either Master or servants; and, indeed, if you could see through the double-breasted pink, the corduroy waistcoat, and the gray flannel beneath, into his innermost heart, you would, I am almost convinced, find that Mr. B. was there written down as the man of the lot.
No light task is his, namely that of professional beggar. For he is Secretary and Treasurer to the Hunt, and on him falls the onus of collecting as well as receiving subscriptions. Long practice has made him[Pg 36] an adept in the art of "cornering" a defaulter, for he has been in office for fifteen years, and it is his boast that if a pound is to be got he is the man to get it.
On one occasion he was sorely put about by a man (I was going to say a gentleman, but his conduct precludes the use of the term), who came down from town and established himself in the country, bringing with him a large stud of hunters. Naturally the Secretary fixed his eagle eye on so promising a subject, and after a month or so began to hint at a subscription, which of course was promised but never came.
Well, the season was drawing to a close and no cheque had been received from the stranger, who, by-the-way, had not forgotten to find fault with everything and everybody; moreover Mr. Boulter had heard by a side-wind that half the large stud were gone, and the rest, accompanied by their owner, would shortly follow. This, coupled with the oft-repeated question at the covert-side of[Pg 37] "Holloa, Boulter, got his coin yet?" put our Secretary on his mettle. So one off-day he rode over to the inn and interviewed the individual, asking him point blank for his cheque, as he (Mr. B.) was making up the accounts. The answer was not propitious, for the snob replied: "I have not got my cheque-book with me, but here are two sovereigns, which is quite sufficient for such a provincial pack as yours."
Boulter pocketed the sovereigns and retired, meditating revenge. At last, however, he hit on a plan.
The meet on the following Monday was fixed for Bindley Park, and the first draw was a long wood, at one end of which lay the house of a market-gardener and small farmer. The only way from the Park to the wood was through the farmyard-gate and out into the field, unless you jumped the fence into the market-garden. Mr. Boulter accordingly took the owner of the said gate into his confidence, as well as those of the[Pg 38] field he could trust, and on the day of the meet the gate was found to be locked, and no one knew where the farmer had gone. To lift it off the hinges was impossible, and old Tom, with a twinkle in his eye, said: "Dang it all; but we mun go round," and forthwith made a pretence of trotting off.
"Never heard such a thing in my life," said the non-subscriber, falling into the trap. "Dashed piece of impudence; sort of thing one might expect in this benighted country. I'm dashed if I'm going round; I shall go through the beggar's garden;" and he proceeded to put his threat into execution by riding at the hedge.
As he rose at the fence the farmer's face was seen peeping round the gate, and as the horse descended into the garden a terrific smash was heard, followed by a loud altercation with, "Damage to my glass and pots and that there bed of young stuff," etc. etc. The next morning the owner of the large stud was presented with a bill of costs to the amount[Pg 39] of ￡20, which, after a deal of blustering, he paid, fifteen sovereigns finding their way into Mr. Boulter's cash-box, the remaining five amply repaying the market-gardener for the loss of two broken and useless lights, a few cabbage-stalks, and a selection of old pots, which he, together with the Secretary, had placed under the hedge at likely spots.
Thus did Mr. Boulter score, and he enjoys nothing so much as telling the story of how he trapped the stranger, though, by-the-way, the same story increases in dramatic incident year by year.
Most amusing it is to watch the reception of the Secretary as he rides up on his famous jumping cob. Those who have paid up greet him with: "Morning, Boulter; you're looking very fit;" and sometimes, when perchance he is arrayed more gorgeously than usual as to his headpiece, "What! a new hat? Dash it all, but that's the second this season; there'll be no money left if you go buying hats like this out of the fund. Here,[Pg 40] Lappington" (to the Master), "here's the Secretary been embezzling again, and broken out into another new topper." While those who have as yet not forwarded their subscription nod him a good-morning, and then somehow their steeds, which up to the present have been behaving in a most rational manner, suddenly get excited, and it requires the undivided attention of their riders to prevent them running away.
In fact, they do run away until they manage to place a convenient distance between themselves and the jumping cob. The Secretary, however, is fully up to all these little dodges, and generally brings down confusion on one or other member by saying with a chuckle: "Dear me, So-and-so, what a funny thing it is, your horse is always fidgety when I come near him. One would think he was afraid of being asked for a subscription, and forgets that his master has paid." After a pause: "By Jove, no! I'm wrong and the horse is right. Your cheque has not come[Pg 41] yet. What a sensible beast the animal is!" He says this is a most infallible remedy, and that the following morning he invariably finds a letter on his table enclosing the required article, and apologising for forgetfulness.
Perhaps the secret of his success lies in his great popularity, for his cheery manners and jovial smile have endeared him to all. Among the farmers' wives he is worshipped, and though they one and all swear that "Next time they are not a-going to be talked over about that poultry-bill," it is always the same. Before the Secretary rides or drives away from the homestead the bill is forgotten, and all the children are crowing after him to tell them one more "'tory."
One good dame in particular is most emphatic on the subject of his powers of persuasion. "You see, my dear," says she, "I sends in a bill for two turkeys, six couple of ducks, just a-fatting too, three couple of hens, and a whole brood of chickens. When I sees Mr. Boulter a-coming up I says to myself says[Pg 42] I, 'Now, Mrs. Styles, don't you go for to be bamboozled.' But, laws! afore he's been in the place half an hour I've nearly busted myself a-larfin', and I finds myself a-drinking a dish of tea with him, and as fully persuaded as how it's my place to keep the turkeys for them beastly foxes as I don't know what; and then the blessed bill goes in the fire, and I'm a loser of close on twenty-eight shillings. But then I knowed him as a lad, bless 'im; and there's never a Christmas but what a hamper of game and a bottle of sherry comes to the farm; so there's no bones broke."
With all his wheedling powers, Mr. Boulter is a thorough sportsman. There is not an earth in the country that he does not know as well as his own house; and he is equally well acquainted with the run of every fox. Every hound he knows by name, and can give you chapter and verse for both pedigree and performance.
A sure find for breakfast, dinner, or lunch, too, is The Grange, and for a bottle of real[Pg 43] old '47 port never drawn blank. Unbounded hospitality is the order in that establishment, where throughout the season Mrs. Boulter takes care that something is always on the table "in case the hounds should come that way." Talking of Mrs. Boulter, there is a piece of chaff against her husband that the day he was married he not only got a subscription to the hounds out of the parson, but by exercising his persuasive powers actually got off the fees!
The annual hunt-dinner is a great day for the Secretary. On that occasion he takes the vice-chair, and proposes the health of Sir John, the Master, in a speech which poor Mrs. B. has to listen to off and on for the three previous days. Once the meek little woman did rebel. The speech she had put up with, but when her lord and master returned home at two o'clock, exceedingly jovial, and kept her awake till six o'clock by alternately treating her to "John Peel," and informing her, with a somewhat foolish laugh, that[Pg 44] "they called me besht f'ller in shworld, drunk m'very good shealth, 'pon m'shoul," she thought it was a little too much; and when the orator awoke next day, headachey, chippy, and penitent, she gave him a piece of her mind which so astonished him that he has never exceeded again, and now returns at eleven sharp.
Sometimes during the summer months Boulter is to be seen struggling with a pile of luggage at a foreign railway station, looking as miserable as a man can look, and heavily handicapped as to the language of the country in which his wife has elected to travel. But the trip never lasts long. Some business connected with the hunt invariably calls him back, and on a hot August day you will find him at the kennels chatting with Tom Wilding over the prospects of the coming season or the young entry, and anxiously longing for the "beastly harvest" to be over, and for November leaves to fall.
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If not there he will be riding round looking up Velveteens and his satellites, and endeavouring to imbue them with the motto of "Live and let live," as applicable to the fox.