‘Indeed! (hiccup),’ exclaimed Sir Harry.  ‘Tell us (hiccup) all about it.’

‘Well,’ said Mr. Sponge, laying the brush lengthways before him on the table, as if he was going to demonstrate upon it.  ’Well, you see we had a devil of a run—­I don’t know how many miles, as hard as ever we could lay legs to the ground; one by one the field all dropped astern, except the huntsman and myself.  At last he gave in, or rather his horse did, and I was left alone in my glory.  Well, we went over the downs at a pace that nothing but blood could live with, and, though my horse has never been beat, and is as thorough-bred as Eclipse—­a horse that I have refused three hundred guineas for over and over again, I really did begin to think I might get to the bottom of him, when all of a sudden we came to a dean.’

‘Ah!  Cockthropple that would be,’ observed Sir Harry.

‘Dare say,’ replied Mr. Sponge; ’Cock-anything-you-like-to-call-it for me.  Well, when we got there, I thought we should have some breathing time, for the fox would be sure to hug it.  But no; no sooner had I got there than a countryman hallooed him away on the far side.  I got to the halloo as quick as I could, and just as I was blowing the horn,’ producing Watchorn’s from his pocket as he spoke; ‘for I must tell you,’ said he, ’that when I saw the huntsman’s horse was beat, I took this from him—­a horn to a foot huntsman being of no more use, you know, than a side-pocket to a cow, or a frilled shirt to a pig.  Well, as I was tootleing the horn for hard life, who should turn out of the wood but old mealy-mouth himself, as you call him, and a pretty volley of abuse he let drive at me.’

‘No doubt,’ hiccuped Sir Harry; ‘but what was he doing there?’

‘Oh!  I should tell you,’ replied Mr. Sponge, ’his hounds had run a fox into it, and were on him full cry when I got there.’

‘I’ll be bund,’ cried Sir Harry, ’it was all sham—­that he just (hiccup) and excuse for getting into that cover.  The old (hiccup) beggar is always at some trick, (hiccup)-ing my foxes or disturbing my covers or something,’ Sir Harry being just enough of a master of hounds to be jealous of the neighbouring ones.

‘Well, however, there he was,’ continued Mr. Sponge; ’and the first intimation I had of the fact was a great, gruff voice, exclaiming, “Who the Dickens are you?”

‘"Who the Dickens are you?” replied I.’

‘Bravo!’ shouted Sir Harry.

‘Capital!’ exclaimed Seedeybuck.

‘Go it, you cripples!  Newgate’s on fire!’ shouted Captain Quod.

‘Well, what said he?’ asked Sir Harry.

’"They commonly call me the Earl of Scamperdale,” roared he, “and those are MY HOUNDS.”

’"They’re not your hounds,” replied I.

’"Whose are they, then?” asked he.

’"Sir Harry Scattercash’s, a devilish deal better fellow,” replied I.

’"Oh, by Jove!” roared he, “there’s an end of everything, Jack,” shouted he to old Spraggon, “this gentleman says these are not my hounds!”