The hackney-coach-and cab-men, along whose lines they passed, could not make him out at all.  Some thought he was a mail-coach guard riding post with the bags; but as the light was pretty strong he trotted on regardless of observation.  The fog, however, abated none of its denseness even on the “Surrey side,” and before they reached the “Elephant and Castle,” Jorrocks had run against two trucks, three watercress women, one pies-all-ot!-all-ot! man, dispersed a whole covey of Welsh milkmaids, and rode slap over one end of a buy ’at (hat) box! bonnet-box! man’s pole, damaging a dozen paste-boards, and finally upsetting Balham Hill Joe’s Barcelona “come crack ’em and try ’em” stall at the door of the inn, for all whose benedictions, the Yorkshireman, as this great fox-hunting knight-errant’s “Esquire,” came in.

Here the Yorkshireman would fain have persuaded Mr. Jorrocks to desist from his quixotic undertaking, but he turned a deaf ear to his entreaties.  “We are getting fast into the country, and I hold it to be utterly impossible for this fog to extend beyond Kennington Common—­’twill ewaporate, you’ll see, as we approach the open.  Indeed, if I mistake not, I begin to sniff the morning air already, and hark! there’s a lark a-carrolling before us!” “Now, spooney! where are you for?” bellowed a carter, breaking off in the middle of his whistle, as Jorrocks rode slap against his leader, the concussion at once dispelling the pleasing pastoral delusion, and nearly knocking Jorrocks off his horse.

As they approached Brixton Hill, a large red ball of lurid light appeared in the firmament, and just at the moment up rode another member of the Surrey Hunt in uniform, whom Jorrocks hailed as Mr. Crane.  “By Jove, ’ow beautiful the moon is,” said the latter, after the usual salutations.  “Moon!” said Mr. Jorrocks, “that’s not never no moon—­I reckon it’s Mrs. Graham’s balloon.”  “Come, that’s a good ’un,” said Crane, “perhaps you’ll lay me an ’at about it”.  “Done!” said Mr. Jorrocks, “a guinea one—­and we’ll ax my friend here.—­Now, what’s that?” “Why, judging from its position and the hour, I should say it is the sun!” was the reply.

We have omitted to mention that this memorable day was a Saturday, one on which civic sportsmen exhibit.  We may also premise, that the particular hunt we are about to describe, took place when there were very many packs of hounds within reach of the metropolis, all of which boasted their respective admiring subscribers.  As our party proceeded they overtook a gentleman perusing a long bill of the meets for the next week, of at least half a dozen packs, the top of the list being decorated with a cut of a stag-hunt, and the bottom containing a notification that hunters were “carefully attended to by Charles Morton,[10] at the ‘Derby Arms,’ Croydon,” a snug rural auberge near the barrack.  On the hunting bill-of-fare, were Mr. Jolliffe’s foxhounds, Mr. Meager’s harriers, the Derby staghounds, the Sanderstead harriers, the Union foxhounds, the Surrey foxhounds, rabbit beagles on Epsom Downs, and dwarf foxhounds on Woolwich Common.  What a list to bewilder a stranger!  The Yorkshireman left it all to Mr. Jorrocks.