After a considerable time spent in casting to the right, the left, and the rear, “True-bouy” chances to take a fling in advance, and hitting upon the scent, proclaims it with his wonted energy, which drawing all his brethren to the spot, they pick it slowly over some brick-fields and flint-beds, to an old lady’s flower-garden, through which they carry it with a surprising head into the fields beyond, when they begin to fall into line, and the sportsmen doing the same—­“one at a time and it will last the longer”—­“Tummas” tootles his horn, the hunt is up, and away they all rattle at “Parliament pace,” as the hackney-coachmen say.

Our swell, who flatters himself he can “ride a few,” according to the fashion of his country, takes up a line of his own, abreast of the leading hounds, notwithstanding the oft vociferated cry of “Hold hard, sir!” “Pray, hold hard, sir!” “For God’s sake, hold hard, sir!” “G—­d d—­n you, hold hard, sir!” “Where the h—­ll are you going to, sir?” and other familiar inquiries and benedictions, with which a stranger is sometimes greeted, who ventures to take a look at a strange pack of hounds.

In the meantime the fox, who has often had a game at romps with his pursuers, being resolved this time to give them a tickler, bears straight away for Westerham, to the infinite satisfaction of the “hill folks,” who thus have an excellent opportunity of seeing the run without putting their horses to the trouble of “rejoicing in their strength, or pawing in the valley.”  But who is so fortunate as to be near the scene of action in this second scurry, almost as fast as the first?  Our fancy supplies us, and there not being many, we will just initialise them all, and let he whom the cap fits put it on.

If we look to the left, nearly abreast of the three couple of hounds that are leading by some half mile or so, we shall see “Swell”—­like a monkey on a giraffe—­striding away in the true Leicestershire style; the animal contracting its stride after every exertion in pulling its long legs out of the deep and clayey soil, until the Bromley barber, who has been quilting his mule along at a fearful rate, and in high dudgeon at anyone presuming to exercise his profession upon a dumb brute, overtakes him, and in the endeavour to pass, lays it into his mule in a style that would insure him rotatory occupation at Brixton for his spindles, should any member of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals witness his proceedings; while his friend and neighbour old B——­, the tinker, plies his little mare with the Brummagems, to be ready to ride over “Swell” the instant the barber gets him down.  On the right of the leading hounds are three crack members of the Surrey, Messrs. B—­e, S—­bs, and B—­l, all lads who can go; while a long way in the rear of the body of the pack are some dozen, who, while they sat on the hills, thought they could also, but who now find out their mistake.  Down Windy Lane, a glimpse of a few