‘He’s going to ride over us all,’ snapped Mr Fossick, whom Sponge passed at a hand-canter, as the former was blobbing and floundering about the deep ruts leading out of a turnip field.

‘He’ll catch it just now,’ said Mr Wake, eyeing Sponge drawing upon his lordship and Jack, as they led the field as usual. Jack being at a respectful distance behind his great patron, espied Sponge first; and having taken a good stare at him through his formidable spectacles, to satisfy himself that it was nobody he knew -- a stare that Sponge returned as well as a man without spectacles can return the stare of one with -- Jack spurred his horse up to his lordship, and, rising in his stirrups, shot into his ear --

‘Why, here’s the man on the cow!’ adding, ‘It isn’t Washey.’

‘Who the deuce is it, then?’ asked his lordship, looking over his left shoulder, as he kept galloping on in the wake of his huntsman.

‘Don’t know,’ replied Jack; ‘never saw him before.’

‘Nor I,’ said his lordship with an air, as much as to say, ‘It makes no matter.’

His lordship, though well mounted, was not exactly on the sort of horse for the country they were in; while Mr Sponge, in addition to being on the very animal for it, had the advantage of the horse having gone the first part of the run without a rider: so Multum in Parvo, whether Mr Sponge wished it or not, insisted on being as far forward as he could get. The more Sponge pulled and hauled, the more determined the horse was; till, having thrown both Jack and his lordship in the rear, he made for old Frostyface, the huntsman, who was riding well up to the still-flying pack.

‘Hold hard, sir! For God’s sake, hold hard!’ screamed Frosty, who knew by intuition there was a horse behind, as well as he knew there was a man shooting in front, who, in all probability, had headed the fox.

‘HOLD HARD, sir!’ roared he, as, yawning and boring and shaking his head, Parvo dashed through the now yelping scattered pack, making straight for a stiff new gate, which he smashed through, just as a circus pony smashes through a paper hoop.

‘Hoo--ray!’ shouted Jack Spraggon, on seeing the hounds were safe. ‘Hoo--ray for the tailor!’

‘Billy Button, himself!’ exclaimed his lordship; adding ‘Never saw such a thing in my life!’

‘Who the deuce is he?’ asked Blossomnose, in the full glow of pulling-five-year-old exertion.

‘Don’t know,’ replied Jack; adding, ‘He’s a shaver, whoever he is.’

Meanwhile the frightened hounds were scattered right and left.

‘I’ll lay a guinea he’s one of those confounded writing chaps,’ observed Fyle, who had been handled rather roughly by one of the tribe, who had dropped ‘quite promiscuously’ upon a field where he was, just as Sponge had done with Lord Scamperdale’s.

‘Shouldn’t wonder,’ replied his lordship, eyeing Sponge’s vain endeavours to turn the chesnut, and thinking how he would ‘pitch into him’ when he came up. ‘By Jove,’ added his lordship, ‘if the fellow had taken the whole country round, he couldn’t have chosen a worse spot for such an exploit; for there never is any scent over here. See! not a hound can own it. Old Harmony herself throws up!’

The whips again are in their places, turning the astonished pack to Frostyface, who sets off on a casting expedition. The field, as usual, sit looking on; some blessing Sponge; some wondering who he was; others looking what o’clock it is; some dismounting and looking at their horses’ feet.