MB. SPONGE'S SPOBTING TOUli. 49 



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 — rac- 

 ing " 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 stoutness of their hats : crash they get 

 through it, the noise they make among the thorns and rotten 

 branches resembling the outburst of a fire. Several gentlemen 

 here decline under cover of the trees. 



" F — o — o — r — rard! " screams old Tom, as he dives through 

 the stiff fence and lands in the field outside the plantation. He 



