A dark-coated gentleman on a good family horse solves the important question—­’Which way?’—­by diving at once into the wood, crashing along till he comes to a cross-road that leads to the top, when the scene opening to ‘open fresh fields and pastures new,’ discloses divers other sections struggling up in long drawn files, following other leaders, all puffing, and wheezing and holding on by the manes, many feeling as if they had had enough already—­’Quick!’ is the word, for the tail-hounds are flying the fence out of the first field over the body of the pack, which are running almost mute at best pace beyond, looking a good deal smaller than is agreeable to the eyes of a sportsman.

‘F—­o—­o—­r—­rard!’ screams old Tom, flying the fence after them, followed by jealous jostling riders in scarlet and colours, some anxious, some easy, some wanting to be at it, some wanting to look as if they did, some wishing to know if there was anything on the far side.

Now Tom tops another fence, rising like a rocket and dropping like a bird; still ‘F—­o—­o—­r—­rard!’ is the cry—­away they go at racing pace.

The field draws out like a telescope, leaving the largest portion at the end, and many—­the fair and fat ones in particular—­seeing the hopelessness of the case, pull up their horses, while yet on an eminence that commands a view.  Fifteen or twenty horsemen enter for the race, and dash forward, though the hounds rather gain on old Tom, and the further they go the smaller the point of the telescope becomes.  The pace is awful; many would give in but for the ladies.  At the end of a mile or so, the determined ones show to the front, and the spirters and ‘make-believes’ gladly avail themselves of their pioneering powers.

Mr. Sponge, who got well through the wood, has been going at his ease, the great striding brown throwing the large fields behind him with ease, and taking his leaps safely and well.  He now shows to the front, and old Tom, who is still ‘F—­o—­o—­r—­rarding’ to his hounds, either rather falls back to the field or the field draws upon him.  At all events they get together somehow.  A belt of Scotch fir plantation, with a stiffish fence on each side, tries their mettle and the stoutness of their hats:  crash they get through it, the noise they make among the thorns and rotten branches resembling the outburst of a fire.  Several gentlemen here decline under cover of the trees.

‘F—­o—­o—­r—­rard!’ screams old Tom, as he dives through the stiff fence and lands in the field outside the plantation.  He might have saved his breath, for the hounds were beating him as it was.  Mr. Sponge bores through the same place, little aided, however, by anything old Tom has done to clear the way for him, and the rest follow in his wake.