106 MB. SPONGE'S SPORTING TOUR. 



power. Jack was always at his lordship's elbow ; and it was 

 " Jack " this, " Jack " that, " Jack " something, all day long. 

 But we must return to Mr. Sponge, whom we left working his 

 way through the intricate fields. At last he got through them, 

 and into Eed Pool Common, which, by leaving the windmill to 

 the right, -he cleared pretty cleverly, and entered upon a district 

 still wilder and drearier than any he had traversed. Pewits 

 screamed and hovered over land that seemed to grow little but 

 rushes and water-grasses, with occasional heather. The ground 

 poached and splashed as he went ; worst of all, time was nearly up. 



In vain Sponge strained his eyes in search of Duntleton Tower. 

 In vain he fancied every high, sky-line-breaking place in the dis- 

 tance was the much wished-for spot. Duntleton Tower was no 

 more a tower than it was a town, and would seem to have been 

 christened by the rule of contrary, for it was nothing but a great 

 flat open space, without object or incident to note it. 



Sponge, however, was not destined to see it. 



As he went floundering along through an apparently intermin- 

 able and almost bottomless lane, whose sunken places and deep 

 ruts were filled with clayey water, which 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 further 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. 



