‘C--a--s--t anchor!’ exclaimed Watchorn, in a tone of derision -- ‘not this half hour yet, I hope! -- not this forty minnits yet, I hope! -- not this hour and twenty minnits yet, I hope!’ continued he, putting his horse irresolutely at the fence. The horse blundered through it, barking Watchorn’s nose with a branch.

‘’Ord rot it, cut off my nose!’ exclaimed he, muffling it up in his hand. ‘Cut off my nose clean by my face, I do believe,’ continued he, venturing to look into his hand for it. ‘Well,’ said he, eyeing the slight stain of blood on his glove, ‘this will be a lesson to me as long as I live. If ever I ’unt again in a frost, may I be Thank goodness! they’re chucked at last!’ exclaimed he, as the music suddenly ceased, and Mr Sponge and Miss Glitters sat motionless together on their panting, smoking steeds.

Watchorn then stuck spurs to his horse, and being now on a flat rushy pasture, with a bridle-gate into the field where the hounds were casting, he hustled across, preparing his horn for a blow as soon as he got there.

‘Twang--twang--twang--twang,’ he went, riding up the hedgerow in the contrary direction to what the hounds leant. ‘Twang--twang--twang,’ he continued, inwardly congratulating himself that the fox would never face the troop of urchins he saw coming down with their guns.

‘Hang him! -- he’s never that way!’ observed Mr Sponge, sotto voce, to Miss Glitters. ‘He’s never that way,’ repeated he, seeing how Frantic flung to the right.

‘Twang--twang--twang,’ went the horn, but the hounds regarded it not.

‘Do, Mr Sponge, put the hounds to me!’ roared Mr Watchorn, dreading lest they might hit off the scent.

Mr Sponge answered the appeal by turning his horse the way the hounds were feathering, and giving them a slight cheer.

‘’Ord rot it!’ roared Watchorn, ‘do let ’em alone! that’s a fresh fox! our’s is over the ’ill,’ pointing towards Bonnyfield Hill.

‘Hoop!’ hallooed Mr Sponge, taking off his hat, as Frantic hit off the scent to the right, and Galloper, and Melody, and all the rest scored to cry.

‘Oh, you confounded brown-bouted beggar!’ exclaimed Mr Watchorn, returning his horn to its case, and eyeing Mr Sponge and Miss Glitters sailing away with the again breast-high-scent pack. ‘Oh, you exorbitant usurer!’ continued he, gathering his horse to skate after them. ‘Well now, that’s the most disgraceful proceedin’ I ever saw in the whole course of my life. Hang me, if I’ll stand such work! Dash me, but I’ll ’quaint the Queen! -- I’ll tell Sir George Grey! I’ll write to Mr Walpole! Of--orrard! Of--orrard!’ hallooed he, as Bob Spangles and Bouncey popped upon him unexpectedly from behind, exclaiming with well-feigned glee, as he pointed to the streaming pack with his whip, ‘’Ord dash it, but we’re in for a good thing!’

Little Bouncey’s horse was still yawning and stargazing, and Bouncey, being quite unequal to riding and well-nigh exhausted, ‘downed’ him against a rubbing-post in the middle of a field, making a ‘cannon’ with his own and his horse’s head, and was immediately the centre of attraction for the panting tail. Bouncey got near a pint of sherry from among them before he recovered from the shock. So anxious were they about him, that not one of them thought of resuming the chase. Even the lagging whips, couldn’t leave him. George Cheek was presently hors de combat in a hedge, and Watchorn seeing him ‘see-sawing,’ exclaimed, as he slipped through a gate,

‘I’ll send your mar to you, you young ’umbug.’

Watchorn would gladly have stopped too, for the fumes of the champagne were dead within him, and the riding was becoming every minute more dangerous. He trotted on, hoping each jump of brown boots