went starring up to the knees through a long sheet of ice, squirting the clayey water into his rider’s face.  ‘Hold up!’ repeated he, adding, ‘I’m dashed if one mightn’t as well be crashin’ over the Christial Palace as ridin’ over a country froze in this way!  ‘Ord rot it, how cold it is!’ continued he, blowing on his finger-ends; ’I declare my ’ands are quite numb.  Well done, old brown bouts!’ exclaimed he, as a crash on the right attracted his attention; ‘well done, old brown bouts!—­broke every bar i’ the gate!’ adding, ’but I’ll let Mr. Buckram know the way his beautiful horses are ‘bused.  Well,’ continued he, after a long skate down the grassy side of Ditchburn Lane, ’there’s no fun in this—­none whatever.  Who the deuce would be a huntsman that could be anything else?  Dash it!  I’d rayther be a hosier—­I’d rayther be a ’atter—­I’d rayther be an undertaker—­I’d rayther be a Pusseyite parson—­I’d rayther be a pig-jobber—­I’d rayther be a besom-maker—­I’d rayther be a dog’s-meat man—­I’d rayther be a cat’s-meat man—­I’d rayther go about a sellin’ of chick-weed and sparrow-grass!’ added he, as his horse nearly slipped up on his haunches.

’Thank ‘eavens there’s relief at last!’ exclaimed he, as on rising Gimmerhog Hill he saw Farmer Saintfoin’s southdowns wheeling and clustering, indicative of the fox having passed; ’thank ’eavens, there’s relief at last!’ repeated he, reining up his horse to see the hounds charge them.

Mr. Sponge and Miss Glitters were now in the bottom below, fighting their way across a broad mill-course with a very stiff fence on the taking-off side.

‘Hold up!’ roared Mr. Sponge, as, having bored a hole through the fence, he found himself on the margin of the water-race.  The horse did hold up, and landed him—­not without a scramble—­on the far side.  ‘Run him at it, Lucy!’ exclaimed Mr. Sponge, turning his horse half round to his fair companion.  ‘Run him at it, Lucy!’ repeated he; and Lucy fortunately hitting the gap, skimmed o’er the water like a swallow on a summer’s eve.

‘Well done! you’re a trump!’ exclaimed Mr. Sponge, standing in his stirrups, and holding on by the mane as his horse rose the opposing hill.

He just got up in time to save the muttons; another second and the hounds would have been into them.  Holding up his hand to beckon Lucy to stop, he sat eyeing them intently.  Many of them had their heads up, and not a few were casting sheep’s eyes at the sheep.  Some few of the line hunters were persevering with the scent over the greasy ground.  It was a critical moment.  They cast to the right, then to the left, and again took a wider sweep in advance, returning however towards the sheep, as if they thought them the best spec after all.

’Put ’em to me,’ said Mr. Sponge, giving Miss Glitters his whip; ’put ’em to me!’ said he, hallooing, ’Yor-geot, hounds!—­yor-geot!’—­which, being interpreted, means, ‘here again, hounds!—­here again!’