worthy
master of the pack, followed by Jorrocks, with his long coat-laps
floating in the breeze, who thinking that "catching-time" must be near
at hand, and being dearly fond of blood, has descended from his high
station to witness the close of the scene. "Vot a pace! and vot a
country!" cries the grocer, standing high in his stirrups, and bending
over the neck of his chestnut as though he were meditating a plunge over
his head; "how they stick to him! vot a pack! by Jove they are at fault
again. Yooi, Pilgrim! Yooi, Warbler, ma load! (lad). Tom, try down the
hedge-row." "Hold your jaw, Mr. J----," cries Tom, "you are always
throwing that red rag of yours. I wish you would keep your potato-trap
shut. See! you've made every hound throw up, and it's ten to one that
ne'er a one among 'em will stoop again." "Yonder he goes," cries a cock
of the old school, who used to hunt with Colonel Jolliffe's hounds,
and still sports the long blue surtout lined with orange, yellow-ochre
unmentionables, and mahogany-coloured knee-caps, with mother-of-pearl
buttons. "Yonder he goes among the ship (sheep), for a thousand! see how
the skulking waggabone makes them scamper." At this particular moment
a shrill scream is heard at the far end of a long shaw, and every man
pushes on to the best of his endeavour. "Holloo o-o-u, h'loo o-o-u,
h'loo--o-o-u, gone away! gone away! forward! forrard! hark back! hark
forrard! hark forrard! hark back!" resounds from every mouth. "He's
making for the 'oods beyond Addington, and we shall have a rare teaser
up these hills," cries Jorrocks, throwing his arms round his horse's
neck as he reaches the foot of them.--"D--n your hills," cries "Swell,"
as he suddenly finds himself sitting on the hindquarters of his horse,
his saddle having slipped back for want of a breastplate,--"I wish the
hills had been piled on your back, and the flints thrust down your
confounded throat, before I came into such a cursed provincial." "Haw,
haw, haw!" roars a Croydon butcher. "What don't 'e like it, sir, eh? too
sharp to be pleasant, eh?--Your nag should have put on his boots before
he showed among us."

"He's making straight for Fuller's farm," exclaims a thirsty veteran on
reaching the top, "and I'll pull up and have a nip of ale, please God."
"Hang your ale," cries a certain sporting cheesemonger, "you had better
come out with a barrel of it tacked to your horse's tail."--"Or 'unt on
a steam-engine," adds his friend the omnib