[Footnote 4:  A stranger never rides straight if he beats the members of the hunt.]

And now some dozens of sportsmen quietly ambling up to the scene of action, view with delight (alone equalled by their wonder at so unusual and unexpected an event) the quarrels of the hounds, as they dispute with each other the possession of their victim’s remains, when suddenly a gentleman, clad in a bright green silk-velvet shooting-coat, with white leathers, and Hessian boots with large tassels, carrying his Joe Manton on his shoulder, issues from an adjoining coppice, and commences a loud complaint of the “unhandsome conduct of the gentlemen’s ’ounds in devouring the ’are (hare) which he had taken so much pains to shoot.”  Scarcely are these words out of his mouth than the whole hunt, from Jorrocks downwards, let drive such a rich torrent of abuse at our unfortunate chasseur, that he is fain to betake himself to his heels, leaving them undisputed masters of the field.

The visages of our sportsmen become dismally lengthened on finding that their fox has been “gathered unto his fathers” by means of hot lead and that villainous saltpetre “digged out of the bowels of the harmless earth”; some few, indeed, there are who are bold enough to declare that the pack has actually made a meal of a hare, and that their fox is snugly earthed in the neighbouring cover.  However, as there are no “reliquias Danaum,” to prove or disprove this assertion, Tom Hills, having an eye to the cap-money, ventures to give it as his opinion, that pug has fairly yielded to his invincible pursuers, without having “dropped to shot.”  This appearing to give very general satisfaction, the first whip makes no scruple of swearing that he saw the hounds pull him down fairly; and Peckham, drawing his mouth up on one side, with his usual intellectual grin, takes a similar affidavit.  The Bromley barber too, anxious to have it to say that he has for once been in at the death of a fox, vows by his beard that he saw the “varmint” lathered in style; and these protestations being received with clamorous applause, and everyone being pleased to have so unusual an event to record to his admiring spouse, agrees that a fox has not only been killed, but killed in a most sportsmanlike, workmanlike, businesslike manner; and long and loud are the congratulations, great is the increased importance of each man’s physiognomy, and thereupon they all lug out their half-crowns for Tom Hills.

In the meantime our “Swell” lays hold of his nag—­who is sorely damaged with the flints, and whose wind has been pretty well pumped out of him by the hills—­and proceeds to lead him back to Croydon, inwardly promising himself for the future most studiously to avoid the renowned county of Surrey, its woods, its barbers, its mountains, and its flints, and to leave more daring spirits to overcome the difficulties it presents; most religiously resolving, at the same time, to return as speedily as possible to his dear Leicestershire, there to amble o’er the turf, and fancy himself an “angel on horseback.”  The story of the country mouse, who must needs see the town, occurs forcibly to his recollection, and he exclaims aloud: