MR. SrONGE's SPORTING TOUR. 57 



repeats he, with a heartier cheer, as the pack charge the rotten fence 

 with a crash that echoes through the wood. The whips scuttle off 

 to their respective points, gentlemen feel their horses' girths, hats are 

 thrust firmly on the head, and the sherry and brandy flasks begin to 

 be drained. 



" Tally ho ! " cries a countryman at the top of the wood, hoisting 

 his hat on a stick. At the magic sound, fear comes over some, joy 

 over others, intense anxiety over all. What commotion ! 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 im- 

 portant question — " Which way? " by diving at once into the wood, 

 crashing aloDg till he comes to a cross-road that leads to the top, 

 when the scene opening to " open fresh fields and pastures new," dis- 

 closes divers other sections struggling up in long drawn files, follow- 

 ing 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 colors, 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 — rard-'mg " to 

 his hounds, either rather falls back to the field or the field draws 

 3* 



