‘No,’ chuckled Jack;’ ‘deed it wouldn’t—­must make the most of him.’

‘What sort of a humour is he in to-day?’ asked Sponge.

‘Middlin’,’ replied Jack, ‘middlin’; he’ll abuse you most likely, but that you mustn’t mind.’

‘Not I,’ replied Sponge, who was used to that sort of thing.

‘You mustn’t mind me either,’ observed Jack, sweeping the last piece of sausage into his mouth with his knife, and jumping up from the table.  ’When his lordship rows I row,’ added he, diving under the side-table for his flat hat.

‘Hark! there’s the horn!’ exclaimed Sponge, rushing to the window.

‘So there is,’ responded Jack, standing transfixed on one leg to the spot.

‘By the powers, they’re away!’ exclaimed Sponge, as his lordship was seen hat in hand careering over the meadow, beyond the cover, with the tail hounds straining to overtake their flying comrades.  Twang—­twang—­twang went Frostyface’s horn; crack—­crack—­crack went the ponderous thongs of the whips; shouts, and yells, and yelps, and whoops, and halloas, proclaimed the usual wild excitement of this privileged period of the chase.  All was joy save among the gourmands assembled at the door—­they looked blank indeed.

‘What a sell!’ exclaimed Sponge, in disgust, who, with Jack, saw the hopelessness of the case.

‘Yonder he goes!’ exclaimed a lad, who had run up from the cover to see the hunt from the rising ground.

‘Where?’ exclaimed Sponge, straining his eyeballs.

‘There!’ said the lad, pointing due south.  ’D’ye see Tommy Claychop’s pasture?  Now he’s through the hedge and into Mrs. Starveland’s turnip field, making right for Bramblebrake Wood on the hill.’

‘So he is,’ said Sponge, who now caught sight of the fox emerging from the turnips on to a grass field beyond.

Jack stood staring through his great spectacles, without deigning a word.

‘What shall we do?’ asked Sponge.

‘Do?’ replied Jack, with his chin still up; ‘go home, I should think.’

‘There’s a man down!’ exclaimed a groom, who formed one of the group, as a dark-coated rider and horse measured their length on a pasture.

‘It’s Mr. Sparks,’ said another, adding, ‘he’s always rolling about.’

‘Lor’, look at the parson!’ exclaimed a third, as Blossomnose was seen gathering his horse and setting up his shoulders preparatory to riding at a gate.

’Well done, old ‘un!’ roared a fourth, as the horse flew over it, apparently without an effort.

‘Now for Tom!’ cried several, as the second whip went galloping up on the line of the gate.

‘Ah! he won’t have it!’ was the cry, as the horse suddenly stopped short, nearly shooting Tom over his head.  ’Try him again—­try him again—­take a good run—­that’s him—­there, he’s over!’ was the cry, as Tom flourished his arm in the air on landing.

‘Look! there’s old Tommy Baker, the rat-ketcher!’ cried another, as a man went working his arms and legs on an old white pony across a fallow.