makes a quick
cast round the house, and hits off the scent like a workman. A private
road and a line of gates through fields now greet the eyes of our
M'Adamisers. A young gentleman on a hired hunter very nattily attired,
here singles himself out and takes place next to Tom, throwing the
pebbles and dirt back in the eyes of the field. Tom crams away, throwing
the gates open as he goes, and our young gentleman very coolly passes
through, without a touch, letting them bang-to behind him. The
Yorkshireman, who had been gradually creeping up, until he has got the
third place, having opened two or three, and seeing another likely to
close for want of a push, cries out to our friend as he approaches, "Put
out your hand, sir!" The gentleman obediently extends his limb like the
arm of a telegraph, and rides over half the next field with his hand in
the air! The gate, of course, falls to.

A stopper appears--a gate locked and spiked, with a downward hinge to
prevent its being lifted. To the right is a rail, and a ha-ha beyond
it--to the left a quick fence. Tom glances at both, but turns short,
and backing his horse, rides at the rail. The Yorkshireman follows, but
Jorrocks, who espies a weak place in the fence a few yards from the
gate, turns short, and jumping off, prepares to lead over. It is an old
gap, and the farmer has placed a sheep hurdle on the far side. Just as
Jorrocks has pulled that out, his horse, who is a bit of a rusher, and
has got his "monkey" completely up, pushes forward while his master is
yet stooping--and hitting him in the rear, knocks him clean through the
fence, head foremost into a squire-trap beyond!--"Non redolet sed olet!"
exclaims the Yorkshireman, who dismounts in a twinkling, lending his
friend a hand out of the unsavoury cesspool.--"That's what comes of
hunting in a new[12] saddle, you see," added he, holding his nose.
Jorrocks scrambles upon "terra firma" and exhibits such a spectacle as
provokes the shouts of the field. He has lost his wig, his hat hangs to
his back, and one side of his person and face is completely japanned
with black odoriferous mixture. "My vig!" exclaims he, spitting and
spluttering, "but that's the nastiest hole I ever was in--Fleet Ditch is
lavender-water compared to it! Hooi yonder!" hailing a lad, "Catch
my 'oss, boouy!" Tom Hills has him; and Jorrocks, pocketing his wig,
remounts, rams his spurs into the nag, and again tackles with the pack,
which had come to a momen