“Oh, Tom Hills!—­Tom Hills!—­’what are you at? what are you after?’” demanded Jorrocks, as he landed on the top.  “Here’s a gentleman come all the way from the north-east side of the town of Boroughbridge, in the county of York, to see our excellent ’ounds, and here you are running a hare.  Oh, Tom Hills!  Tom Hills! ride forward, ride forward, and whip them off, ere we eternally disgrace ourselves.”  “Oh,” says Tom, laughing, “he’s a fox! but he’s so tarnation frightened of our hounds, that his brush dropped off through very fear, as soon as ever he heard us go into the wood; if you go back, you’ll find it somewhere, Mr. Jorrocks; haw, haw, haw!  No fox indeed!” said he.—­“Forrard, hounds, forrard!” And away he went—­caught the old whipper-in, dismounted him in a twinkling, and was on a fresh horse with his hounds in full cry.  The line of flight was still along the hill-tops, and all eagerly pressed on, making a goodly rattle over the beds of flints.  A check ensued.  “The guard on yonder nasty Brighton coach has frightened him with his horn,” said Tom; “now we must make a cast up to yonder garden, and see if he’s taken shelter among the geraniums in the green-house.  As little damage as possible, gentlemen, if you please, in riding through the nursery grounds.  Now, hold hard, sir—­pray do—­there’s no occasion for you to break the kale pots; he can’t be under them.  Ah, yonder he goes, the tailless beggar; did you see him as he stole past the corner out of the early-cabbage bed?  Now bring on the hounds, and let us press him towards London.”

“See the conquering hero comes”, sounded through the avenue of elms as Tom dashed forward with the merry, merry pack.  “I shall stay on the hills”, said one, “and be ready for him as he comes back; I took a good deal of the shine out of my horse in coming up this time”.  “I think I will do the same”, said two or three more.  “Let’s be doing”, said Jorrocks, ramming his spurs into his nag to seduce him into a gallop, who after sending his heels in the air a few times in token of his disapprobation of such treatment, at last put himself into a round-rolling sort of canter, which Jorrocks kept up by dint of spurring and dropping his great bastinaderer of a whip every now and then across his shoulders.  Away they go pounding together!

The line lies over flint fallows occasionally diversified with a turnip-field or market-garden, and every now and then a “willa” appears, from which emerge footmen in jackets, and in yellow, red and green plush breeches, with no end of admiring housemaids, governesses, and nurses with children in their arms.