‘Is he!’ exclaimed Slapp, cantering past at his ease on a thoroughbred grey, as if he could well afford to dispense with a start.

Reader! it was neither Lumpleg nor Slapp, nor any of the Puffington snobs, or Flat Hat swells, or Puffington Swells, or Flat Hat snobs. It was our old friend Sponge; Monsieur Tonson again! Having arrived late, he had posted himself, unseen, by the cover side, and the fox had broke close to him. Unfortunately, he had headed him back, and a pretty kettle of fish was the result. Not only had he headed him back, but the resolute chestnut, having taken it into his head to run away, had snatched the bit between his teeth, and carried him to the far side of a field ere Sponge managed to man0156uvre him round on a very liberal semicircle, and face the now flying sportsmen, who came hurrying on through the mist like a charge of yeomanry after a salute. All was excitement, hurry-scurry, and horse-hugging, with the usual spurring, elbowing, and exertion to get into places; Mr Fossick considering he had as much right to be before Mr Fyle, as Mr Fyle had to be before old Capon.

It apparently being all the same to the chestnut which way he went so long as he had his run, he now bore Sponge back as quickly as he had carried him away, and with yawning mouth, and head in the air, he dashed right at the coming horsemen, charging Lord Scamperdale full tilt as he was in the act of returning his horn to its case. Great was the collision! His lordship flew one way, his horse another, his hat a third, his whip a fourth, his spectacles a fifth; in fact, he was scattered all over. In an instant he lay in the centre of a circle, kicking on his back like a lively turtle.

‘Oh! I’m kilt!’ he roared, striking out as if he was swimming, or rather floating. ‘I’m kilt!’ he repeated. ‘He’s broken my back -- he’s broken my legs -- he’s broken my ribs -- he’s broken my collar-bone -- he’s knocked my right eye into the heel of my left boot. Oh! will nobody catch him and kill him? Will nobody do for him? Will you see an English nobleman knocked about like a nine-pin?’ added his lordship, scrambling up to go in pursuit of Mr Sponge himself, exclaiming, as he stood shaking his fist at him, ‘Rot ye, sir! hangin’s too good for ye! You should be condemned to hunt in Berwickshire the rest of your life!’