‘Well, now we are at fault,’ said Jack, motioning Sponge to resume; ‘we are at fault; now say, ‘‘but Mr Bragg who had ridden gallantly on his favourite bay, as fine an animal as ever went, though somewhat past mark of mouth -- ’’ He is a good horse, at least was,’ observed Jack; adding, ‘I sold Puff him, he was one of old Sugarlip’s,’ meaning Lord Scamperdale’s.
‘Sure to be a good’un then,’ replied Sponge, with a wink; adding, ‘I wonder if he’d like to buy any more.’
‘We’ll talk about that after,’ replied Jack, ‘at present let us get on with our run.’
‘Well,’ said Sponge, ‘I’ve got it: ‘‘Mr Bragg who had ridden gallantly on his favourite bay, as fine an animal as ever went, though somewhat past mark of mouth -- ’’ ’
‘ ‘‘Was well up with his hounds,’’ ’ continued Jack, ‘ ‘‘and with a gently Rantipole! and a single wave of his arm, proceeded to make one of those scientific casts for which this eminent huntsman is so justly celebrated.’’ Justly celebrated!’ repeated Jack, spitting on the carpet with a hawk of disgust; ‘the conceited self-sufficient bantam-cock never made a cast worth a copper, or rode a yard but when he thought somebody was looking at him.’
‘I’ve got it,’ said Sponge, who had plied his pen to good purpose.
‘Justly celebrated,’ repeated Jack, with a snort. ‘Well, then, say, ‘‘Hitting off the scent like a workman,’’ -- big H, you know, for a fresh sentence -- ‘‘they went away again at score, and passing by Moorlinch farm- buildings, and threading the strip of plantation by Bexley Burn, he crossed Silverbury Green, leaving Longford Hutch to the right, and passing straight on by the gibbet at Harpen.’’ Those are all bits of places,’ observed Jack, ‘that none but the country folks know; indeed, I shouldn’t have known them but for shootin’ over them when old Bloss lived at the Green. Well, now have you got all that?’ asked he.
‘ ‘‘Gibbet at Harpen,’’ ’ read Sponge, as he wrote it.
‘ ‘‘Here, then, the gallant pack, breaking from scent to view,’’ ’ continued Jack, speaking slowly, ‘ ‘‘run into their fox in the open close upon Mountnessing Wood, evidently his point from the first, and into which a few more strides would have carried him. It was as fine a run as ever was seen, and the hunting of the hounds was the admiration of all who saw it. The distance couldn’t have been less than’’ -- than -- what shall we say?’ asked Jack.
‘Ten, twelve miles, as the crow flies,’ suggested Sponge.
‘No,’ said Jack, ‘that would be too much. Say ten; adding, ‘‘that will be four more than it was.’’ ’
‘Never mind,’ said Sponge, as he wrote it; ‘folks like good measure with runs as well as ribbons.’
‘Now we must butter Old Puff,’ observed Spraggon.
‘What can we say for him?’ asked Sponge; ‘that he never went off the road?’
‘No, by Jove!’ said Jack; ‘you’ll spoil all if you do that: better leave it alone altogether than do that. Say, ‘‘the justly popular owner of this most celebrated pack, though riding good fourteen stone’’ (he rides far more,’ observed Jack; ‘at least sixteen; but it’ll please him to make out that he can ride fourteen), ‘‘led the welters, on his famous chestnut horse, Tappey Lappey.’’ ’
‘What shall we say about the rest?’ asked Sponge; ‘Lumpleg, Slapp, Guano, and all those?’
‘Oh, say nothin’,’ replied Jack; ‘we’ve nothin’ to do with nobody but Puff, and we couldn’t mention them without bringin’ in our Flat Hat men too, Blossomnose, Fyle, Fossick, and so on. Besides, it would spoil all to say that Guano was up -- people would say directly it couldn’t have been much of a run if Guano was there. You might finish off,’ observed Jack, after a pause, ‘by saying that ‘‘after this truly brilliant