as they still pressed upon the pack. ‘Have a little regard for a huntsman’s raputation,’ continued he. ‘Remember that it rises and falls with the sport he shows’ -- exhortations that seemed to be pretty well lost upon the field, who began comparing notes as to their respective achievements, enlarging the leaps and magnifying the distance into double what they had been. Puffington and some of the fat ones sat gasping and mopping their brows.

Seeing there was not much chance of the hounds hitting off the scent by themselves, Mr Bragg began telegraphing with his arm to the whippers-in, much in the manner of the captain of a Thames steamer to the lad at the engine, and forthwith they drove the pack on for our swell huntsman to make his cast. As good luck would have it, Bragg crossed the line of the fox before he had got half through his circle, and away the hounds dashed, at a pace and with a cry that looked very like killing. Mr Bragg was in ecstasies, and rode in a manner very contrary to his wont. All again was life, energy, and action; and even some who hoped there was an end of the thing, and that they might go home and say, as usual, ‘that they had had a very good run, but not killed,’ were induced to proceed.

Away they all went as before.

At the end of eighteen minutes more the hounds ran into their fox in the little green valley below Mountnessing Wood, and Mr Bragg had him stretched on the green with the pack baying about him, and the horses of the field-riders getting led about by the country people, while the riders stood glorying in the splendour of the thing. All had a direct interest in making it out as good as possible, and Mr Bragg was quite ready to appropriate as much praise as ever they liked to give.

‘’Ord dim him,’ said he, turning up the fox’s grim head with his foot, ‘but Mr Bragg’s an awkward customer for gen’lemen of your description.’

‘You hunted him well!’ exclaimed Charley Slapp, who was trumpeter general of the establishment.

‘Oh, sir,’ replied Bragg, with a smirk and a condescending bow, ‘if Richard Bragg can’t kill foxes, I don’t know who can.

Just then ‘Puffington and Co.’ hove in sight up the valley, their faces beaming with delight as the tableau before them told the tale. They hastened to the spot.

‘How many brace is that?’ asked Puffington, with the most matter-of-course air, as he trotted up, and reined in his horse outside the circle.

‘Seventeen brace, your grace, I mean to say my lord, that’s to say sur,’ replied Bragg, with a strong emphasis on the sur, as if to say, ‘I’m not used to you snobs of Commoners.’

‘Seventeen brace!’ sneered Jack Spraggon to Sponge; adding, in a whisper, ‘More like seven foxes.’

‘And how many run to ground?’ asked Puffington, alighting.

‘Four brace,’ replied Bragg, stooping to cut of the brush.

We were wrong in saying that Bragg only allowed Puff the privilege of nodding his head to say when he might throw off. He let him lead the ‘lie gallop’ in the kill department.

Mr Puffington then presented Mr Sponge with the brush, and the usual solemnities being observed, the sherry flasks were produced and drained, the biscuits munched, and, midst the smoke of cigars, the ring broke up in great good will.