s lordship, with an air as much as to say, 'It makes no
matter.'

His lordship, though well mounted, was not exactly on the sort of horse
for the country they were in; while Mr. Sponge, in addition to being on the
very animal for it, had the advantage of the horse having gone the first
part of the run without a rider: so Multum in Parvo, whether Mr. Sponge
wished it or not, insisted on being as far forward as he could get. The
more Sponge pulled and hauled, the more determined the horse was; till,
having thrown both Jack and his lordship in the rear, he made for old
Frostyface, the huntsman, who was riding well up to the still-flying pack.

'HOLD HARD, sir! For God's sake, hold hard!' screamed Frosty, who
knew by intuition there was a horse behind, as well as he knew there was a
man shooting in front, who, in all probability, had headed the fox.

'HOLD HARD, sir!' roared he, as, yawning and boring and shaking
his head, Parvo dashed through the now yelping scattered pack, making
straight for a stiff new gate, which he smashed through, just as a circus
pony smashes through a paper hoop.

'Hoo-ray!' shouted Jack Spraggon, on seeing the hounds were safe. 'Hoo-ray
for the tailor!'

'Billy Button, himself!' exclaimed his lordship, adding, 'never saw such a
thing in my life!'

'Who the deuce is he?' asked Blossomnose, in the full glow of
pulling-five-year-old exertion.

'Don't know,' replied Jack, adding, 'he's a shaver, whoever he is.'

Meanwhile the frightened hounds were scattered right and left.

'I'll lay a guinea he's one of those confounded waiting chaps,' observed
Fyle, who had been handled rather roughly by one of the tribe, who had
dropped 'quite promiscuously' upon a field where he was, just as Sponge had
done with Lord Scamperdale's.

'Shouldn't wonder,' replied his lordship, eyeing Sponge's vain endeavours
to turn the chestnut, and thinking how he would 'pitch into him' when he
came up. 'By Jove,' added his lordship, 'if the fellow had taken the whole
country round, he couldn't have chosen a worse spot for such an exploit;
for there never _is_ any scent over here. See! not a hound can own it. Old
Harmony herself throws up.

The whips again are in their places, turning the astonished pack to
Frostyface, who sets off on a casting expedition. The field, as usual, sit
looking on; some blessing Sponge; some wondering who he was; others looking
what o'clock it is; some dismounting and looking at their horses