George Fraser - Mr American

“Why thank you, sir. Your very good health, and –” he bowed towards the group round the map “ – and your daughter’s, too.”

Why he assumed that the beautiful lady was the old gentleman’s daughter he could not have said; they could hardly be man and wife, and the relationship seemed a reasonable supposition. That he was wrong, offensively wrong, was evident immediately; at his words the murmur of voices over the map stopped dead, and the old gentleman stared at him with his face going crimson. Surprise and anger showed in the little bright eyes staring at Mr Franklin; then the eyes closed as their owner began to wheeze loudly – to his relief Mr Franklin realized that the old gentleman was laughing, and laughing with abandon, heaving precariously on his camp-chair, and finally going into a coughing-fit which brought the beautiful lady to his side. She bent over him, an arm about his heavy shoulders, as the coughing fit subsided and the old gentleman found his voice again.

“Don’t fuss at me!” he said. “There, that’s better – that’s better.” He would have resumed his cigar, but the lady gave him a reproachful look, and with a sigh he tossed it away. “Well – have you found the place yet?”

“I’m afraid not.” The lady gave Mr Franklin an apologetic look. “Really, we are hopeless navigators.”

“Well, I hope Stamper can at least find the way to Oxton,” said the old gentleman. He cleared his throat heavily and addressed Mr Franklin. “And that you find your West wherever-it-is, Mr …?”

“Franklin,” said the American, and the old gentleman reached for his own wine-glass and drained it, his gesture inviting Franklin to accompany him.

“You’re an American, aren’t you?” said the old gentleman; now that he had got over his coughing, he had a surprisingly deep, gruff voice, pronouncing his “r’s” with heavy deliberation. “Yes – I told you he was, when we saw him driving down, didn’t I? Always tell an American with horses. Well, good day to you, sir,” and the old gentleman nodded to Mr Franklin as the servant helped him to rise, the lady taking his arm. She smiled pleasantly as Mr Franklin got down to put his empty glass on the table.

“I do wish we could have helped you,” she said.

“I’m just sorry for putting you to so much trouble,” said Mr Franklin. “You’ve been very kind. And I thank you for a glass of excellent wine, Mr …?”

“Eh?” The old gentleman squared his broad shoulders and the little eyes met Mr Franklin’s again. “Oh … Lancaster. Glad to have seen you, Mr Franklin.”

He stumped off towards the car, the lady moving gracefully beside him. Mr Franklin mounted his trap again, shook the reins, and set off; he glanced back once, and saw that the old gentleman was being settled into his seat by the chauffeur, who was wrapping a rug round his legs. The lady waved gaily to Mr Franklin, and then he was over the bridge and out of sight, puzzling over the unpredictable behaviour of the English gentry: there had been a moment there when the old fellow had looked ready to burst, but he seemed a decent enough sort. And what a green-eyed beauty she had been; Mr Franklin wondered if Englishwomen were really more handsome than any others, or if there was something in the English air that was making him more susceptible.

A mile or two farther on he stopped for his own picnic on a slight rise from which he had a good view of the misty country round, except to his right, where a high hedge obscured a stretch of ploughed land. He unpacked from the hamper some cold cuts and salad and cheese, as well as a bottle of Bernkastler, a wine for which he had conceived a loyalty, if not perhaps a liking exactly, on the voyage from New York; it was, in fact, the first wine he had ever tasted. He spread his old slicker on the damp grass at the roadside, and fell to, munching contentedly and taking in the scenery.

From somewhere across the ploughed land the sound of the barking dogs came again, closer than before, and this time the distant sound of human voices, sharply interrupted by the unmistakeable note of a horn. Mr Franklin stopped eating to listen; the distant voices were shouting, and there was that dull drumming sound which he knew so well, of galloping horses; the baying of the dogs rose clamorously – they must be in the ploughed field beyond the hedge by now, and Mr Franklin was just rising to have a look when something small and frantic burst suddenly through the hedge, there was a reddish blur streaking across the road, swerving to avoid the startled Mr Franklin, then leaping an astonishing height and actually striking the side of the trap with a slight thud. It happened in the twinkling of an eye; the small creature tumbled over the side of the trap in a flurry of bushy tail, fell into a picnic basket – and the lid which Mr Franklin had carelessly left open, fell abruptly, the patent catch clicked shut, and the invader was trapped. The basket jerked and shook, to an accompaniment of squeaks within; Mr Franklin stood astonished, a drumstick in one hand and a glass in the other – and then over and through the hedge came what seemed to be a torrent of dogs, brown and white brutes with long tails and floppy ears, baying and squealing and surging round the trap, threatening to overturn it in their eagerness to get at the basket. The din was deafening, the trap shuddered under the impact of canine bodies struggling against its sides, and the hack, which Mr Franklin had fortunately turned loose to graze, neighed wildly and clattered off down the road.

Mr Franklin considered the situation; it was new to him, but he was not a man given to acting without thinking, except in truly mortal situations; dealing with a swarming pack of excited dogs was outside his scope, and he was relieved at the abrupt appearance of a wiry little man who looked like a jockey in a large red coat, and who fell on the dogs with a long-lashed whip and a tongue to match. There was shouting and cheering from the hedge; riders were trying to find a way through, and now from gates some distance down the road on either side they came clattering on to the road – men in red or black, with top hats, caps, and crops, converging on the trap, where the wiry little man was thrashing at the squealing dogs, swearing shrilly in a jargon which Mr Franklin did not recognize. But the appearance of the new arrivals was at least familiar from prints in books and on saloon walls; this, he concluded, was a fox-hunt.

“What the blazes is happening, Jarvie?” “What is it?” “Where away, then?” “I say, Jarvie, what’s happened?” The riders were reining in round the trap, the frustrated pack, the belabouring huntsman, and the innocent Mr Franklin, with a clamour of inquiry; a burly young man with a heavy moustache was to the fore, flourishing a heavy riding crop.

“Good God, Jarvie, what are the hounds doing?” he demanded, and the sweating little man, having beaten a way through the yelping mass, was springing nimbly into the trap and surveying the jerking picnic basket with astonishment.

“I … I dunno, milord. Why, bloody ’ell – I think it’s gone to ground in this ’ere basket!”

Cries of astonishment and laughter; Mr Franklin noted that a couple of ladies were among the hunters who were pressing forward to see. One horse stamped perilously close to him, and he had to step back, catching at the hedge to prevent his falling.

“What’s that? In the basket? Good God!” exclaimed the burly young man. “Well, I’m damned! Heave it out then, Jarvie – sling it on to the road, man!”

“I think it’s locked, milord,” said Jarvie, eyeing the basket.

“Then break the dam’ thing open, can’t you? Throw it down!”

Mr Franklin was conscious of a slight irritation. It was not only the brutality of the burly young man’s tone, proclaiming as it did an obvious disregard for anyone and anything that got in his way; nor was it the threatened destruction of his property. What ruffled Mr Franklin’s spirit was the fact that no one, especially the burly young man, had even noticed him or apparently given a thought to who the owner of the trap and basket might be. On the contrary, he had been forced into the hedge, and was still in some danger of being trampled as the riders pressed their horses forward round the trap, chattering excitedly.