rs, intense
anxiety over all. What commotion! What indecision! What confusion! 'Which
way?--Which way?' is the cry.

'Twang, twang, twang,' goes old Tom's horn at the top of the wood, whither
he seems to have flown, so quick has he got there.

A dark-coated gentleman on a good family horse solves the important
question--'Which way?'--by diving at once into the wood, crashing along
till he comes to a cross-road that leads to the top, when the scene opening
to 'open fresh fields and pastures new,' discloses divers other sections
struggling up in long drawn files, following other leaders, all puffing,
and wheezing and holding on by the manes, many feeling as if they had had
enough already--'Quick!' is the word, for the tail-hounds are flying the
fence out of the first field over the body of the pack, which are running
almost mute at best pace beyond, looking a good deal smaller than is
agreeable to the eyes of a sportsman.

'F--o--o--r--rard!' screams old Tom, flying the fence after them, followed
by jealous jostling riders in scarlet and colours, some anxious, some easy,
some wanting to be at it, some wanting to look as if they did, some wishing
to know if there was anything on the far side.

Now Tom tops another fence, rising like a rocket and dropping like a bird;
still 'F--o--o--r--rard!' is the cry--away they go at racing pace.

The field draws out like a telescope, leaving the largest portion at the
end, and many--the fair and fat ones in particular--seeing the hopelessness
of the case, pull up their horses, while yet on an eminence that commands a
view. Fifteen or twenty horsemen enter for the race, and dash forward,
though the hounds rather gain on old Tom, and the further they go the
smaller the point of the telescope becomes. The pace is awful; many would
give in but for the ladies. At the end of a mile or so, the determined ones
show to the front, and the spirters and 'make-believes' gladly avail
themselves of their pioneering powers.

Mr. Sponge, who got well through the wood, has been going at his ease, the
great striding brown throwing the large fields behind him with ease, and
taking his leaps safely and well. He now shows to the front, and old Tom,
who is still 'F--o--o--r--rarding' to his hounds, either rather falls back
to the field or the field draws upon him. At all events they get together
somehow. A belt of Scotch fir plantation, with a stiffish fence on each
side, tries their mettle and the stou