h thing--a pretty burst; and Mr. Vosper, who had hunted for
five-and-twenty seasons without ever subscribing one farthing to hounds,
always declaring that each season was 'his last,' or that he was going to
confine himself entirely to some other pack, said it was nothing to make a
row about, that he had seen fifty better things with the Tinglebury
harriers, and never a word said.

'Well,' said Sponge to Spraggon, between the whiffs of a cigar, as they
rode together; 'it wasn't so bad, was it?'

'Bad!--no,' squinted Jack, 'devilish good--for Puff, at least,' adding, 'I
question he's had a better this season.'

'Well, we are in luck,' observed Tom Washball, riding up and joining them;'
we are in luck to have a satisfactory thing with you great connoisseurs
out.'

'A pretty thing enough,' replied Jack, 'pretty thing enough.'

'Oh, I don't mean to say it's equal to many we've had this season,' replied
Washball; 'nothing like the Boughton Hill day, nor yet the Hembury Forest
one; but still, considering the meet and the state of the country--'

'Hout! the country's good enough,' growled Jack, who hated Washball;
adding, 'a good fox makes any country good'; with which observation he
sidled up to Sponge, leaving Washball in the middle of the road.

'That reminds me,' said Jack, _sotto voce_ to Sponge, 'that the crittur
wants his run puffed, and he thinks you can do it.'

'Me!' exclaimed Sponge, 'what's put that in his head?'

'Why, you see,' exclaimed Jack, 'the first time you came out with our
hounds at Dundleton Tower, you'll remember--or rather, the first time we
saw you, when your horse ran away with you--somebody, Fyle, I think it
was, said you were a literary cove; and Puff, catchin' at the idea, has
never been able to get rid of it since: and the fact is, he'd like to be
flattered--he'd be uncommonly pleased if you were to "soft sawder" him
handsomely.'

'_Me!_' exclaimed Sponge; 'bless your heart, man, I can't write
anything--nothing fit to print, at least.'

'Hout, fiddle!' retorted Spraggon, 'you can write as well as any other man;
see what lots of fellows write, and nobody ever finds fault.'

'But the spellin' bothers one,' replied Sponge, with a shake of his elbow
and body, as if the idea was quite out of the question.

'Hang the spellin',' muttered Jack, 'one can always borrow a dictionary; or
let the man of the paper--the editor, as they call him--smooth out the
spellin'. You say at the end of your l