e.

As they approached Brixton Hill, a large red ball of lurid light
appeared in the firmament, and just at the moment up rode another member
of the Surrey Hunt in uniform, whom Jorrocks hailed as Mr. Crane. "By
Jove, 'ow beautiful the moon is," said the latter, after the usual
salutations. "Moon!" said Mr. Jorrocks, "that's not never no moon--I
reckon it's Mrs. Graham's balloon." "Come, that's a good 'un," said
Crane, "perhaps you'll lay me an 'at about it". "Done!" said Mr.
Jorrocks, "a guinea one--and we'll ax my friend here.--Now, what's
that?" "Why, judging from its position and the hour, I should say it is
the sun!" was the reply.

We have omitted to mention that this memorable day was a Saturday,
one on which civic sportsmen exhibit. We may also premise, that the
particular hunt we are about to describe, took place when there were
very many packs of hounds within reach of the metropolis, all of which
boasted their respective admiring subscribers. As our party proceeded
they overtook a gentleman perusing a long bill of the meets for the
next week, of at least half a dozen packs, the top of the list being
decorated with a cut of a stag-hunt, and the bottom containing a
notification that hunters were "carefully attended to by Charles
Morton,[10] at the 'Derby Arms,' Croydon," a snug rural _auberge_ near
the barrack. On the hunting bill-of-fare, were Mr. Jolliffe's foxhounds,
Mr. Meager's harriers, the Derby staghounds, the Sanderstead harriers,
the Union foxhounds, the Surrey foxhounds, rabbit beagles on Epsom
Downs, and dwarf foxhounds on Woolwich Common. What a list to bewilder a
stranger! The Yorkshireman left it all to Mr. Jorrocks.

[Footnote 10: Where the carrion is, there will be the crow, and on the
demise of the "Surrey staggers," Charley brushed off to the west, to
valet the gentlemen's hunters that attend the Royal Stag Hunt.--_Vide_
Sir F. Grant's picture of the meet of the Royal Staghounds.]

"You're for Jolliffe, I suppose," said the gentleman with the bill,
to another with a blue coat and buff lining. "He's at Chipstead
Church--only six miles from Croydon, a sure find and good country."
"What are you for, Mr. Jorrocks?" inquired another in green, with black
velvet breeches, Hessian boots, and a red waistcoat, who just rode up.
"My own, to be sure," said Jorrocks, taking hold of the green collar of
his coat, as much as to say, "How can you ask such a question?" "Oh,
no," said the gentleman in green