he muddy ditches in which he
was left; the despair with which he would stand by his unfortunate
horse when the poor brute could no longer move across some
deep-ploughed field; the miles that he would walk at night beside a
tired animal, as he made his way slowly back to Roebury!

Then came Tom the huntsman, with Calder Jones close to him, and
Grindley intent on winning his sovereign. Vavasor had also crossed
the road somewhat to the left, carrying with him one or two who knew
that he was a safe man to follow. Maxwell had been ignominiously
turned by the hedge, which, together with its ditch, formed a fence
such as all men do not love at the beginning of a run. He had turned
from it, acknowledging the cause. "By George!" said he, "that's too
big for me yet awhile; and there's no end of a river at the bottom."
So he had followed the master down the road.

All those whom we have named managed to get over the brook, Pollock's
horse barely contriving to get up his hind legs from the broken edge
of the bank. Some nags refused it, and their riders thus lost all
their chance of sport for that day. Such is the lot of men who hunt.
A man pays five or six pounds for his day's amusement, and it is ten
to one that the occurrences of the day disgust rather than gratify
him! One or two got in, and scrambled out on the other side, but
Tufto Pearlings, the Manchester man from Friday Street, stuck in the
mud at the bottom, and could not get his mare out till seven men
had come with ropes to help him. "Where the devil is my fellow?"
Pearlings asked of the countrymen; but the countrymen could not tell
him that "his fellow" with his second horse was riding the hunt with
great satisfaction to himself.

George Vavasor found that his horse went with him uncommonly well,
taking his fences almost in the stride of his gallop, and giving
unmistakeable signs of good condition. "I wonder what it is that's
amiss with him," said George to himself, resolving, however, that he
would sell him that day if he got an opportunity. Straight went the
line of the fox, up from the brook, and Tom began to say that his
master had been wrong about Claydon's.

"Where are we now?" said Burgo, as four or five of them dashed
through the open gate of a farmyard.

"This is Bulby's farm," said Tom, "and we're going right away for
Elmham Wood."

"Elmham Wood be d----," said a stout farmer, who had come as far as
that with them. "You won't see Elmham Wood to-day."