Mr. Jawleyford then mounted; and having settled himself into a military seat, touched the old screw with the spur, and set off at a canter.  The piebald, perhaps mistaking the portico for a booth, and thinking it was a good place to exhibit it, proceeded to die in the most approved form; and not all Sponge’s ‘Come-up’s’ or kicks could induce him to rise before he had gone through the whole ceremony.  At length, with a mane full of gravel, a side well smeared, and a ‘Wilkinson & Kidd’ sadly scratched, the ci-devant actor arose, much to the relief of the village lad, who having indulged in a gallop as he brought him from Lucksford, expected his death would be laid at his door.  No sooner was he up, than, without waiting for him to shake himself, Mr. Soapey vaulted into the saddle, and seizing him by the head, let in the Latchfords in a style that satisfied the hack he was not going to canter in a circle.  Away he went, best pace; for like all Mr. Sponge’s horses, he had the knack of going, the general difficulty being to get them to go the way they were wanted.

Sponge presently overtook Mr. Jawleyford, who had been brought up by a gate, which he was making sundry ineffectual Briggs-like passes and efforts to open; the gate and his horse seeming to have combined to prevent his getting through.  Though an expert swordsman, he had never been able to accomplish, the art of opening a gate, especially one of those gingerly balanced spring-snecked things that require to be taken at the nick of time, or else they drop just as the horse gets his nose to them.

‘Why aren’t you here to open the gate?’ asked Jawleyford, snappishly, as the blue boy bustled up as his master’s efforts became more hopeless at each attempt.

The lad, like a wise fellow, dropped from his horse, and opening it with his hands, ran it back on foot.

Jawleyford and Sponge then rode through.

Canter, canter, canter, went Jawleyford, with an arm akimbo, head well up, legs well down, toes well pointed, as if he were going to a race, where his work would end on arriving, instead of to a fox-hunt, where it would only begin.

[Illustration:  JAWLEYFORD GOING TO THE HUNT]

‘You are rather hard on the old nag, aren’t you?’ at length asked Sponge, as, having cleared the rushy, swampy park, they came upon the macadamized turnpike, and Jawleyford selected the middle of it as the scene of his further progression.

‘Oh no!’ replied Jawleyford, tit-tup-ing along with a loose rein, as if he was on the soundest, freshest-legged horse in the world; ’oh no! my horses are used to it.’  ‘Well, but if you mean to hunt him,’ observed Sponge, ‘he’ll be blown before he gets to cover.’

‘Get him in wind, my dear fellow,’ replied Jawleyford, ‘get him in wind,’ touching the horse with the spur as he spoke.

’Faith, but if he was as well on his legs as he is in his wind, he’d not be amiss,’ rejoined Sponge.