his ease, followed by Jack, who is staring at him through his great lamps, longing to launch out at him, but as yet wanting an excuse; Sponge having ridden with judgement -- judgement, at least, in everything except in having taken the lead of Jack. After Jack comes old black-booted Blossomnose; and Messrs Wake, Fossick, and Fyle, complete our complement of five. They are all riding steadily and well; all very irate, however, at the stranger for going before them, and ready to back Jack in anything he may say or do.

On, on they go; the hounds still pressing forward, though not carrying quite so good a head as before. In truth, they have run four miles in twenty minutes; pretty good going anywhere except upon paper, where they always go unnaturally fast. However, there they are, still pressing on, though with considerably less music than before.

After rounding Newington Hill, they got into a wilder and worse sort of country, among moorish, ill-cultivated land, with cold unwholesome-looking fallows. The day, too, seemed changing for the worse; a heavy black cloud hanging overhead. The hounds were at length brought to their noses.

His lordship, who had been riding all eyes, ears, and fears, foresaw the probability of this; and pulling-to his horse, held up his hand, the usual signal for Jack to ‘sing out’ and stop the field. Sponge saw the signal, but, unfortunately, Hercules didn’t; and tearing along with his head to the ground, resolutely bore our friend not only past his lordship, but right on to where the now stooping pack were barely feathering on the line.

Then Jack and his lordship sang out together.

‘Hold hard!’ screeched his lordship, in a dreadful state of excitement.

‘HOLD HARD!’ thundered Jack.

Sponge was holding hard -- hard enough to split the horse’s jaws, but the beast would go on, notwithstanding.

‘By the powers, he’s among ’em again!’ shouted his lordship, as the resolute beast, with his upturned head almost pulled round to Sponge’s knee, went stargazing on like the blind man in Regent Street. ‘Sing out, Jack! sing out! for heaven’s sake sing out,’ shrieked his lordship, shutting his eyes, as he added, ‘or he’ll kill every man Jack of them.’

‘Now, SUR!’ roared Jack, ‘can’t you steer that ere aggravatin’ quadruped of yours?’

‘Oh, you pestilential son of a pontry-maid!’ screeched his lordship, as Brilliant ran yelping away from under Sponge’s horse’s feet. ‘Sing out Jack! sing out!’ gasped his lordship again.

‘Oh, you scandalous, hypocritical, rusty-booted, numb-handed son of a puffing corn-cutter, why don’t you turn your attention to feeding hens, cultivating cabbages, or making pantaloons for small folks, instead of killing hounds in this wholesale way?’ roared Jack; an enquiry that set him foaming again.

‘Oh, you unsighty, sanctified, idolatrous, Bagnigge-Wells copper-smith, you think because I’m a lord, and can’t swear or use coarse language, that you may do what you like; rot you, sir, I’ll present you with a testimonial! I’ll settle a hundred a-year upon you if you’ll quit the country. By the powers, they’re away again!’ added his lordship, who, with one eye on Sponge and the other on the pack, had been watching Frosty lifting them over the bad scenting-ground, till, holding them on to a hedgerow beyond, they struck the scent on good sound pasture, and went away at score, every hound throwing his tongue, and filling the air with joyful melody. Away they swept like a hurricane. ‘F--o--o--rard!’ was again the cry.

‘Hang it, Jack,’ exclaimed Lord Scamperdale, laying his hand on his double’s shoulder, as they galloped alongside of each other -- ‘Hang it, Jack, see if you can’t sarve out this unrighteous, mahogany-booted, rattlesnake. Do if you die for it! -- I’ll bury your remainders genteelly -- patent coffin with brass nails,