i8o The Great Presentation Day. 



he thought the fox would , most likely go, he neveV 

 saw anything more of them all day. 



The hounds keep on, running harder than ever. 

 ''Carn't make it off at all," mutters Tom Tootler; 

 '\ shouldn't never ha' thought there'd been such a scent 

 such a hot day as this here." And now they come to the 

 famous Blessington Brook, which our friend Charlie has 

 taken care to bring into the line. Wildoats goes at it 

 fifty miles an hour, and gets over handsomely. Mrs. 

 Chirpington follows him, the Bishop of Soda and Be- 

 lauds short, and gets a fall, but is quickly up again. 

 Splash, splash, splash. Three get in all at once ; but 

 what are the odds ? it won't hurt such a hot day as this. 

 ^' Hold up, 'oss," roars Tom, as his horse nearly comes 

 down. The country in the rear is dotted for ever so far 

 with redcoats in various stages of discomfiture. At last 

 the hounds throw up their heads, but only for a 

 minute. Wildoats, who has in a miraculous manner 

 got his second horse, cheers them to a holloa, for on the 

 hill yonder, gesticulating like mad, is a figure he knows 

 for that of his uncle's under-keeper, who has run with 

 the drag. A confederate has just turned out a bag 

 fox, as previously arranged. Lord Daisyfield's horse is 

 dead beat ; Tom Tootler's can scarcely raise a trot, 

 and at last stops altogether, so Tom gets off, and runs 

 along as best he can. Five minutes more, and the 

 hounds run into the bagman, who, half stupefied as he is, 

 poor brute, is turned by a sheep dog right into the very 

 jaws of the pack. '^ Who— hoop ! worry, worry, worry ! 

 Fresh looking fox tew," remarks Tom Tootler, '^carn't 

 ha' swopped either." ^^ Capital run, wasn't it, Tom ? " 

 says Charlie Wildcats, with a grin, lighting a cigar. " It 



