you’ being lost under water just as Sponge clears the brook a little lower down. Spareneck then pulls up.

When Nimrod had Dick Christian under water in the Whissendine in his Leicestershire run, and someone more humane than the rest of the field observed, as they rode on,

‘But he’ll be drowned.’

‘Shouldn’t wonder,’ exclaimed another.

‘But the pace,’ Nimrod added, ‘was too good to enquire.’

Such, however, was not the case with our watering-place cock, Mr Sponge. Independently of the absurdity of a man risking his neck for the sake of picking up a bunch of red herrings, Mr Sponge, having beat everybody, could afford a little humanity, more especially as he rode his horse on sale, and there was now no one left to witness the further prowess of the steed. Accordingly, he availed himself of a heavy, newly-ploughed fallow, upon which he landed as he cleared the brook, for pulling up, and returned just as Mr Spareneck, assisted by one of the whips, succeeded in landing Caingey on the taking-off side. Caingey was not a pretty boy at the best of times -- none but the most partial parents could think him one -- and his clumsy-featured, short, compressed face, and thick, lumpy figure, were anything but improved by a sort of pea-green net-work of water-weeds with which he arose from his bath. He was uncommonly well soaked, and had to be held up by the heels to let the water run out of his boots, pockets and clothes. In this undignified position he was found by Mr Waffles and such of the field as had ridden the line.

‘Why, Caingey, old boy! you look like a boiled porpoise with parsley sauce!’ exclaimed Mr Waffles, pulling up where the unfortunate youth was sputtering and getting emptied like a jug. ‘Confound it!’ added he, as the water came gurgling out of his mouth, ‘but you must have drunk the brook dry.’

Caingey would have censured his inhumanity, but knowing the imprudence of quarrelling with his bread and butter, and also aware of the laughable, drowned-rat figure he must then be cutting, he thought it best to laugh, and take his change out of Mr Waffles another time. According, he chuckled and laughed too, though his jaws nearly refused their office, and kindly transferred the blame of the accident from the horse to himself.

‘He didn’t put on steam enough,’ he said.

Meanwhile, old Tom, who had gone on with the hounds, having availed himself of a well-known bridge, a little above where Thornton went in, for getting over the brook, and having allowed a sufficient time to elapse for the proper completion of the farce, was now seen rounding the opposite hill, with his hounds clustered about his horse, with his mind conning over one of those imaginary runs that experienced huntsmen know so well how to tell, when there is no one to contradict them.

Having quartered his ground to get at his old friend the bridge again, he just trotted up with well-assumed gaiety as Caingey Thornton spluttered the last piece of green weed out from between his great thick lips.

‘Well, Tom!’ exclaimed Mr Waffles, ‘what have you done with him?’

‘Killed him, sir,’ replied Tom, with a slight touch of his cap, as though ‘killing’ was a matter of everyday occurrence with them.

‘Have you, indeed!’ exclaimed Mr Waffles, adopting the lie with avidity.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Tom, gravely; ‘he was nearly beat afore he got to the brook. Indeed, I thought Vanquisher would have had him in it; but, however, he got through, and the scent failed on the fallow, which gave him a chance; but I held them on to the hedgerow beyond, where they hit it off like wildfire, and they