and away they went to canter through Hyde Park in their red coats.  “I must go and all,” said another gentleman; “my dinner will be ready at five, and it is now three.”  Jorrocks was game; and forgetting the quarter of house-lamb, again tackled with the pack.  A smaller sweep sufficed this time, and the hills were once more descended, Jorrocks the first to lead the way.  He well knew the fox was sinking, and was determined to be in at the death.  Short running ensued—­a check—­the fox had lain down, and they had overrun the scent.  Now they were on him, and Tom Hills’s who-whoop confirmed the whole.

“Ah!  Tom Hills, Tom Hills!” exclaimed Jorrocks, as the former took up the fox, “’ow splendid, ’ow truly brilliant—­by Jove, you deserve to be Lord Hill—­oh, had he but a brush that we might present it to this gentleman from the north-east side of the town of Boroughbridge, in the county of York, to show the gallant doings of the men of Surrey!” “Ay,” said Tom, “but Squire——­’s keeper has been before us for it.”

“Now,” said a gentleman in a cap, to another in a hat, “if you will ride up the hill and collect the money there, I will do so below—­half-a-crown, if you please, sir—­half-a-crown, if you please, sir.—­Have I got your half-a-crown, sir?”—­“Here’s three shillings if you will give me sixpence.”  “Certainly, sir—­certainly.”  “We have no time to spare,” said Jorrocks, looking at his watch.  “Good afternoon, gentlemen, good afternoon,” muttering as he went, “a quarter of house-lamb at half-past five—­Mrs. Jorrocks werry punctual—­old Fleecy werry particular.”  They cut across country to Croydon, and as they approached the town, innumerable sportsmen came flocking in from all quarters.  “What sport have you had?” inquired Jorrocks of a gentleman in scarlet; “have you been with Jolliffe?” “No, with the staghounds; three beautiful runs; took him once in a millpond, once in a barn, and once in a brickfield—­altogether the finest day’s sport I ever saw in my life.”  “What have you done, Mr. J——?” “Oh, we have had a most gallant thing; a brilliant run indeed—­three hours and twenty minutes without a check—­over the finest country imaginable.”  “And who got the brush?” inquired the stag-man.  “Oh, it was a gallant run,” said Jorrocks, “by far the finest I ever remember.”  “But did you kill?” demanded his friend.  “Kill! to be sure we did.  When don’t the Surrey kill, I should like to know?” “And who got his brush, did you say?” “I can’t tell,” said he—­“didn’t hear the gentleman’s name.”  “What sport has Mr. Meager had to-day?” inquired he of a gentleman in trousers, who issued from a side lane into the high road.  “I have been with the Sanderstead, sir—­a very capital day’s sport—­run five hares and killed three.  We should have killed four—­only—­we didn’t.”  “I don’t think Mr. Meager has done anything to-day.”  “Yes, he has,” said a gentleman, who just joined with a hare buckled on in front of his saddle, and his white cords all stained with blood; “we killed this chap after an hour and forty-five minutes’ gallop; and accounted for another by losing her after running upwards of-three-quarters of an hour.”  “Well, then, we have all had sport,” said Jorrocks, as he spurred his horse into a trot, and made for Morton’s stables—­“and if the quarter of house-lamb is but right, then indeed am I a happy man.”