MB. SPONGE'S SPOUTING TOUR. 107 



" Hie lack I " cried Sponge. " Hie lack ! " trying to turn them ; 

 but instead of the piebald carrying him in front of the pack, as 

 Sponge wanted, he took to rearing, and plunging, and pawing the 

 air. The hounds meanwhile dashed jealously on without a scent, 

 till first one and then another feeling ashamed, gave in ; and at 

 last a general lull succeeded the recent joyous cry. Awful period ! 

 terrible to any one, but dreadful to a stranger ! Though Sponge 

 was in the road, he well knew that no one has any business any- 

 where but with hounds, when a fox is astir. 



" Hold hard ! " was now the cry, and the perspiring riders and 

 lathered steeds came to a stand-still. 



" Twang — hvang — twang" went a shrill horn ; and a couple of 

 whips, singling themselves out from the field, flew over the fence 

 to where the hounds were casting. 



" Twang — twang — hvang" went the horn again. 



Meanwhile Sponge sat enjoying the following observations, which 

 a westerly wind wafted into his ear. 



" Oh, d n me ! that man in the lane's headed the fox," 



puffed one. 



" Who is it ? " gasped another. 



" Tom Washball ! " exclaimed a third. 



" Heads more foxes than any man in the country," putted a 

 fourth. 



" Always nicking and skirting," exclaimed a fifth. 



" Never comes to the meet," added a sixth. 



" Come on a cow to-day," observed another. 



" Always chopping and changing," added another ; " he'll come 

 on a giraffe next." 



Having commenced his career with the " F. H. H." so inaus- 

 piciously and yet escaped detection, Mr. Sponge thought of letting 

 Tom Washball enjoy the honours of his faux-pas, and of 

 sneaking quietly home as soon as the hounds hit off the scent ; 

 but unluckily, just as they were crossing the lane, what should 

 heave in sight, cantering along at his leisure, but the redoubtable 

 Multum in Parvo, who, having got rid of Old Leather by bumping 

 and thumping his leg against a gate-post, was enjoying a line of 

 his own. 



" Who#y ! " cried Sponge, as he saw the horse quickening his 

 pace to have a shy at the hounds as they crossed. Who — o — a — y ! " 

 roared he, brandishing his whip, and trying to turn the piebald 

 round ; but no, the brute wouldn't answer the bit, and dreading 

 lest, in addition to heading the fox, he should kill " the best 

 hound in the pack," Mr. Sponge threw himself off, regardless of 

 the mud-bath in which he lit, and caught the runaway as he tried 

 to dart past. 



"For-rard! — -for-rard.'—for-rard!" was again the cry, as 



