He then soused himself into his seat, and, snorting heavily through his nostrils, took the reins and whip and long holly from Mr Sponge, and drove leisurely on. Sponge sat anathematising his slowness.

When they reached the farmhouse on the hill the hounds were fairly in view. The huntsman was casting them, and the horsemen were grouped about as usual, while the laggers were stealing quietly up the lanes and by-roads, thinking nobody would see them. Save the whites or the greys, our friends in the ‘chay’ were not sufficiently near to descry the colours of the horses; but Mr Sponge could not help thinking that he recognised the outline of the wicked chestnut, Multum in Parvo.

‘By the powers, but if it is him,’ muttered he to himself, clenching his fist and grinding his teeth as he spoke; ‘but I’ll -- I’ll -- I’ll make sich an example of you,’ meaning of Leather.

Mr Sponge could not exactly say what he would do, for it was by no means a settled point whether Leather or he were master. But to the hounds. If it had not been for Mr Sponge’s shabbiness at the turnpike- gate, we really believe he might now have caught them up, for the road to them was down hill all the way, and the impetus of the vehicle would have sent the old screw along. That delay, however, was fatal. Before they had gone a quarter of the distance the hounds suddenly struck the scent at a hedgerow, and, with heads up and sterns down, went straight away at a pace that annihilated all hope. They were out of sight in a minute. It was clearly a case of kill.

‘Well, there’s a go!’ exclaimed Mr Sponge, folding his arms, and throwing himself back in the phaeton in disgust. ‘I think I never saw such a mess as we’ve made this morning.’

And he looked at the stick in the apron, and the long holly between Jog’s legs, and longed to lay them about his great back.

‘Well (puff), I s’pose (wheeze) we may as well (puff) home now?’ observed Jog, looking about him quite unconcernedly.

‘I think so,’ snapped Sponge; adding, ‘we’ve done it for once, at all events.’

The observation, however, was lost upon Jog, whose mind was occupied with thinking how to get the phaeton round without upsetting. The road was narrow at best, and the newly-laid stone-heaps had encroached upon its bounds. He first tried to back between two stone-heaps, but only succeeded in running a wheel into one; he then tried the forward tack, with no better success, till Mr Sponge seeing matters were getting worse, just jumped out, and taking the old horse by the head, executed the man0156uvre that Mr Jogglebury Crowdey first attempted. They then commenced retracing their steps, rather a long trail, even for people in an amiable mood, but a terribly long one for disagreeing ones.

Jog, to be sure, was pretty comfortable. He had got all he wanted -- all he went out a-hunting for; and as he hissed and jerked the old horse along, he kept casting an eye at the contents of the apron, thinking what crowned, or great man’s head, the now rough, club-headed knobs should be fashioned to represent; and indulged in speculations as to their prospective worth and possible destination. He had not the slightest doubt that a thousand sticks to each of his children would be as good as a couple of thousand pounds a-piece; sometimes he thought more, but never less. Mr Sponge, on the other hand, brooded over the loss of the run; indulged in all sorts of speculations as to the splendour of the affair; pictured the figure he would have cut on the chestnut, and the price he might have got for him in the field. Then he thought of the bucketing Leather would give him; the way he would ram him at everything; how he would let him go with a slack rein in the deep -- very likely making him overreach -- nay, there was no saying but he might stake him.

Then he thought over all the misfortunes and mishaps of the day. The unpropitious toilet; the aggravation of ‘Obin and Ichard;’ the delay caused by Jog being sick with his cigar; the divergence into Hackberry Dean; and the long protracted wait at the toll-bar. Reviewing all the circumstances fairly and dispassionately, Mr Sponge came to the determination of having nothing more to do with Mr Jogglebury Crowdey in the