played the very deuce with the cords and brown boots, the
light note of a hound fell on his ear, and almost at the same instant, a
something that he would have taken for a dog had it not been for the note
of the hound, turned, as it were, from him, and went in a contrary
direction.

Sponge reined in the piebald, and stood transfixed. It was, indeed, the
fox!--a magnificent full-brushed fellow, with a slight tendency to grey
along the back, and going with the light spiry ease of an animal full of
strength and running.

'I wish I mayn't ketch it,' said Sponge to himself, shuddering at the idea
of having headed him.

It was, however, no time for thinking. The cry of hounds became more
distinct--nearer and nearer they came, fuller and more melodious; but,
alas! it was no music to Sponge. Presently the cheering of hunters was
heard--'FOR--_rard_! FOR--_rard_!' and anon the rate of a
whip farther back. Another second, and hounds, horses, and men were in
view, streaming away over the large pasture on the left.

There was a high, straggling fence between Sponge and the field, thick
enough to prevent their identifying him, but not sufficiently high to
screen him altogether. Sponge pulled round the piebald, and gathered
himself together like a man going to be shot. The hounds came tearing full
cry to where he was; there was a breast-high scent, and every one seemed to
have it. They charged the fence at a wattled pace a few yards below where
he sat, and flying across the deep dirty lane, dashed full cry into the
pasture beyond.

'Hie back!' cried Sponge. 'Hie back!' trying to turn them; but instead of
the piebald carrying him in front of the pack, as Sponge wanted, he took to
rearing, and plunging, and pawing the air. The hounds meanwhile dashed
jealously on without a scent, till first one and then another feeling
ashamed, gave in; and at last a general lull succeeded the recent joyous
cry. Awful period! terrible to any one, but dreadful to a stranger! Though
Sponge was in the road, he well knew that no one has any business anywhere
but with hounds, when a fox is astir.

'Hold hard!' was now the cry, and the perspiring riders and lathered steeds
came to a standstill.

'Twang--twang--twang,' went a shrill horn; and a couple of whips, singling
themselves out from the field, flew over the fence to where the hounds were
casting.

'Twang--twang--twang,' went the horn again.

Meanwhile Sponge sat enjoying the following obser