huntsman that could be anything else? Dash it! I'd rayther
be a hosier--I'd rayther be a 'atter--I'd rayther be an undertaker--I'd
rayther be a Pusseyite parson--I'd rayther be a pig-jobber--I'd rayther be
a besom-maker--I'd rayther be a dog's-meat man--I'd rayther be a cat's-meat
man--I'd rayther go about a sellin' of chick-weed and sparrow-grass!' added
he, as his horse nearly slipped up on his haunches.

'Thank 'eavens there's relief at last!' exclaimed he, as on rising
Gimmerhog Hill he saw Farmer Saintfoin's southdowns wheeling and
clustering, indicative of the fox having passed; 'thank 'eavens, there's
relief at last!' repeated he, reining up his horse to see the hounds charge
them.

Mr. Sponge and Miss Glitters were now in the bottom below, fighting their
way across a broad mill-course with a very stiff fence on the taking-off
side.

'Hold up!' roared Mr. Sponge, as, having bored a hole through the fence, he
found himself on the margin of the water-race. The horse did hold up, and
landed him--not without a scramble--on the far side. 'Run him at it, Lucy!'
exclaimed Mr. Sponge, turning his horse half round to his fair companion.
'Run him at it, Lucy!' repeated he; and Lucy fortunately hitting the gap,
skimmed o'er the water like a swallow on a summer's eve.

'Well done! you're a trump!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, standing in his
stirrups, and holding on by the mane as his horse rose the opposing hill.

He just got up in time to save the muttons; another second and the hounds
would have been into them. Holding up his hand to beckon Lucy to stop, he
sat eyeing them intently. Many of them had their heads up, and not a few
were casting sheep's eyes at the sheep. Some few of the line hunters were
persevering with the scent over the greasy ground. It was a critical
moment. They cast to the right, then to the left, and again took a wider
sweep in advance, returning however towards the sheep, as if they thought
them the best spec after all.

'Put 'em to me,' said Mr. Sponge, giving Miss Glitters his whip; 'put 'em
to me!' said he, hallooing, 'Yor-geot, hounds!--yor-geot!'--which, being
interpreted, means, 'here again, hounds!--here again!'

'Oh, the conceited beggar!' exclaimed Mr. Watchorn to himself, as,
disappointed of his finish, he sat feeling his nose, mopping his face, and
watching the proceedings. 'Oh, the conceited beggar!' repeated he, adding,
'old 'hogany bouts is _ab_solutely a goin' to kest them.'

Cast t