‘Oh, the conceited beggar!’ exclaimed Mr. Watchorn to himself, as, disappointed of his finish, he sat feeling his nose, mopping his face, and watching the proceedings.  ‘Oh, the conceited beggar!’ repeated he, adding, ’old ‘hogany bouts is absolutely a goin’ to kest them.’

Cast them, however, he did, proceeding very cautiously in the direction the hounds seemed to lean.  They were on a piece of cold scenting ground, across which they could hardly own the scent.

’Don’t hurry ’em!’ cried Mr. Sponge to Miss Glitters, who was acting whipper-in with rather unnecessary vigour.

As they got under the lee of the hedge, the scent improved a little, and, from an occasional feathering stern, a hound or two indulged in a whimper, until at length they fairly broke out in a cry.  ‘I’ll lose a shoe,’ said Watchorn to himself, looking first at the formidable leap before him, and then to see if there was any one coming up behind.  ‘I’ll lose a shoe,’ said he.  ‘No notion of lippin’ of a navigable river—­a downright arm of the sea,’ added he, getting off.

‘Forward! forward!’ screeched Mr. Sponge, capping the hounds on, when away they went, heads up and sterns down as before.

‘Ay, for-rard! for-rard!’ mimicked Mr. Watchorn; adding, ’you’re for-rard enough, at all events.’

After running about three-quarters of a mile at best pace, Mr. Sponge viewed the fox crossing a large grass field with all the steam up he could raise, a few hundred yards ahead of the pack, who were streaming along most beautifully, not viewing, but gradually gaining upon him.  At last they broke from scent to view, and presently rolled him over and over among them.

‘WHO-HOOP!’ screamed Mr. Sponge, throwing himself off his horse and rushing in amongst them.  ‘WHO-HOOP!’ repeated he, still louder, holding the fox up in grim death above the baying pack.

‘Who-hoop!’ exclaimed Miss Glitters, reining up in delight alongside the chestnut.  ‘Who-hoop!’ repeated she, diving into the saddle-pocket for her lace-fringed handkerchief.

‘Throw me my whip!’ cried Mr. Sponge, repelling the attacks of the hounds from behind with his heels.  Having got it, he threw the fox on the ground, and clearing a circle, he off with his brush in an instant.  ’Tear him and eat him!’ cried he, as the pack broke in on the carcass.  ’Tear him and eat him!’ repeated he, as he made his way up to Miss Glitters with the brush, exclaiming, ‘We’ll put this in your hat, alongside the cock’s feathers.’

The fair lady leant towards him, and as he adjusted it becomingly in her hat, looking at her bewitching eyes, her lovely face, and feeling the sweet fragrance of her breath, a something shot through Mr. Sponge’s pull-devil, pull-baker coat, his corduroy waistcoat, his Eureka shirt, Angola vest, and penetrated the very cockles of his heart.  He gave her such a series of smacking kisses as startled her horse and astonished a poacher who happened to be hid in the adjoining hedge.