While Watchorn was thus manoeuvring his forces Wily Tom beckoned him on, and old Cruiser and Marmion, who had often been at the game before, and knew what Wily Tom’s hat on the ground meant, flew to him full cry, drawing all their companions after them.

‘I think he’s away to the west,’ said Tom in an undertone, resting his hand on Watchorn’s horse’s shoulder; ‘back home,’ added he, jerking his head with a knowing leer of his roguish eye.  ‘They’re on him!’ exclaimed he after a pause, as the outburst of melody proclaimed that the hounds had crossed his line.  Then there was such racing and striving among the field to get up, and such squeezing and crowding, and ‘Mind, my horse kicks!’ at the little white hunting wicket leading into cover.  ‘Knock down the wall!’ exclaimed one.  ‘Get out of the way; I’ll ride over it!’ roared another.  ’We shall be here all day!’ vociferated a third.  ‘That’s a header!’ cried another, as a clatter of stones was followed by a pair of white breeches summerseting in the air with a horse underneath.  ’It’s Tom Sawbones, the doctor!’ exclaimed one, ‘and he can mend himself.’  ’By Jove! but he’s killed!’ shrieked another.  ‘Not a bit of it,’ added a third, as the dead man rose and ran after his horse.  ‘Let Mr. Bugles through,’ cried Sir Harry, seeing his friend, or rather his wife’s friend, was fretting the Arab.

Meanwhile, the melody of hounds increased, and each man, as he got through the little gate, rose in his stirrups and hustled his horse along the green ride to catch up those on before.  The plantation was about twenty acres, rather thick and briary at the bottom; and master Reynard, finding it was pretty safe, and, moreover, having attempted to break just by where some chawbacons were ploughing, had headed short back, so that, when the excited field rushed through the parallel gate on the far side of the plantation, expecting to see the pack streaming away over the downs, they found most of the hounds with their heads in the air, some looking for halloos, others watching their companions trying to carry the scent over the fallow.

Watchorn galloped up in the frantic state half-witted huntsmen generally are, and one of the impromptu whips being in attendance, got quickly round the hounds, and commenced a series of assaults upon them that very soon sent them scuttling to Mr. Watchorn for safety.  If they had been at the hares again, or even worrying sheep, he could not have rated or flogged more severely.

‘MARKSMAN!  MARKSMAN! ough, ye old Divil, get to him!’ roared the whip, aiming a stinging cut with his heavy knotty-pointed whip, at a venerable sage who still snuffed down a furrow to satisfy himself the fox was not on before he returned to cover—­an exertion that overbalanced the whip, and would have landed him on the ground, had not he caught by the spur in the old mare’s flank.  Then he went on scrambling and rating after Marksman, the field exclaiming, as the Edmonton people did, by Johnny Gilpin: