‘F-o-r-rard!’ screeched his lordship, thrusting his spectacles on to his nose.

‘Twang—­twang—­twang,’ went the huntsman’s deep-sounding horn.

‘T’weet—­t’weet—­t’weet,’ went his lordship’s shriller one.

‘In for a stinger, my lurd,’ observed Jack, returning his horn to the case.

‘Hope so,’ replied his lordship, pocketing his.

They then flew the first fence together.

‘F-o-r-r-ard!’ screamed Jack in the air, as he saw the hounds packing well together, and racing with a breast-high scent.

‘F-o-r-rard!’ screamed his lordship, who was a sort of echo to his huntsman, just as Jack Spraggon was echo to his lordship.

‘He’s away for Gunnersby Craigs,’ observed Jack, pointing that way, for they were a good ten miles off.

‘Hope so,’ replied his lordship, for whom the distance could never be too great, provided the pace corresponded.

‘F-o-o-r-rard!’ screamed Jack.

‘F-o-r-rard!’ screeched his lordship.

So they went flying and ‘forrarding’ together; none of the field—­thanks to Jack Spraggon—­being able to overtake them.

‘Y-o-o-nder he goes!’ at last cried Frosty, taking off his cap as he viewed the fox, some half-mile ahead, stealing away round the side of Newington Hill.

‘Tallyho!’ screeched his lordship, riding with his flat hat in the air, by way of exciting the striving field to still further exertion.

’He’s a good ‘un!’ exclaimed Frosty, eyeing the fox’s going.

‘He is that!’ replied his lordship, staring at him with all his might.

Then they rode on, and were presently rounding Newington Hill themselves, the hounds packing well together, and carrying a famous head.

His lordship now looked to see what was going on behind.

Scrambleford Hill was far in the rear.  Jawleyford and the boy in blue were altogether lost in the distance.  A quarter of a mile or so this way were a couple of dots of horsemen, one on a white, the other on a dark colour—­most likely Jones, the keeper, and Farmer Stubble, on the foaly mare.  Then, a little nearer, was a man in a hedge, trying to coax his horse after him, stopping the way of two boys in white trousers, whose ponies looked like rats.  Again, a little nearer, were some of the persevering ones—­men who still hold on in the forlorn hopes of a check—­all dark-coated, and mostly trousered.  Then came the last of the red-coats—­Tom Washball, Charley Joyce, and Sam Sloman, riding well in the first flight of second horsemen—­his lordship’s pad-groom, Mr. Fossick’s man in drab with a green collar, Mr. Wake’s in blue, also a lad in scarlet and a flat hat, with a second horse for the huntsman.  Drawing still nearer came the ruck—­men in red, men in brown, men in livery, a farmer or two in fustian, all mingled together; and a few hundred yards before these, and close upon his lordship, were the elite of the field—­five men in