Great was the emulation when any of these were approached, and the rasping sportsmen rushed eagerly to the “fore.”  At last they approach “Miss Birchwell’s finishing and polishing seminary for young ladies,” whose great flaring blue-and-gold sign, reflecting the noonday rays of the sun, had frightened the fox and caused him to alter his line and take away to the west.  A momentary check ensued, but all the amateur huntsmen being blown, Tom, who is well up with his hounds, makes a quick cast round the house, and hits off the scent like a workman.  A private road and a line of gates through fields now greet the eyes of our M’Adamisers.  A young gentleman on a hired hunter very nattily attired, here singles himself out and takes place next to Tom, throwing the pebbles and dirt back in the eyes of the field.  Tom crams away, throwing the gates open as he goes, and our young gentleman very coolly passes through, without a touch, letting them bang-to behind him.  The Yorkshireman, who had been gradually creeping up, until he has got the third place, having opened two or three, and seeing another likely to close for want of a push, cries out to our friend as he approaches, “Put out your hand, sir!” The gentleman obediently extends his limb like the arm of a telegraph, and rides over half the next field with his hand in the air!  The gate, of course, falls to.

A stopper appears—­a gate locked and spiked, with a downward hinge to prevent its being lifted.  To the right is a rail, and a ha-ha beyond it—­to the left a quick fence.  Tom glances at both, but turns short, and backing his horse, rides at the rail.  The Yorkshireman follows, but Jorrocks, who espies a weak place in the fence a few yards from the gate, turns short, and jumping off, prepares to lead over.  It is an old gap, and the farmer has placed a sheep hurdle on the far side.  Just as Jorrocks has pulled that out, his horse, who is a bit of a rusher, and has got his “monkey” completely up, pushes forward while his master is yet stooping—­and hitting him in the rear, knocks him clean through the fence, head foremost into a squire-trap beyond!—­“Non redolet sed olet!” exclaims the Yorkshireman, who dismounts in a twinkling, lending his friend a hand out of the unsavoury cesspool.—­“That’s what comes of hunting in a new[12] saddle, you see,” added he, holding his nose.  Jorrocks scrambles upon “terra firma” and exhibits such a spectacle as provokes the shouts of the field.  He has lost his wig, his hat hangs to his back, and one side of his person and face is completely japanned with black odoriferous mixture.  “My vig!” exclaims he, spitting and spluttering, “but that’s the nastiest hole I ever was in—­Fleet Ditch is lavender-water compared to it!  Hooi yonder!” hailing a lad, “Catch my ’oss, boouy!” Tom Hills has him; and Jorrocks, pocketing his wig, remounts, rams his spurs into the nag, and again tackles with the pack, which had come to a momentary check on the Eden Bridge road.  The fox has been