238 mr. 



Just then " Puffington and Co." hove in sight up the valley, their 

 faces beaming with delight as the tableau before them told the tale. 

 They hastened to the spot. 



" How many brace is that ? " asked Puffington, with the most 

 matter-of-course air, as he trotted up, and reined in his horse outside 

 the circle. 



" Seventeen brace, your grace, I mean to say my lord, that's to 

 say sur" replied Bragg, with a strong emphasis on the sur, as if to 

 say, " I'm not used to you snobs of Commoners." 



" Seventeen brace ! " sneered Jack Spraggon to Sponge ; adding, 

 in a whisper, " More like seven foxes." 



" And how many run to ground ? " asked Puffington, alighting. 



" Four brace," replied Bragg, stooping to cut off the brush. 



We were wrong in saying that Bragg only allowed Puff the 

 privilege of nodding his head to say when he might throw off. He 

 let him lead the " lie gallop " in the kill department. 



Mr. Puffington then presented Mr. Sponge with the brush, and 

 the usual solemnities being observed, the sherry flasks were produced 

 and drained, the biscuits munched, and, amidst the smoke of cigars, 

 the ring broke up with great good will. 



CHAPTER XXXIX. 



WRITING A RUN. 



The first fumes of excitement over, after a run with a kill, the field 

 begin to take things more coolly and veraciously, and ere long some 

 of them begin to pick holes in the affair. The men of the hunt run 

 it up, while those of the next hunt run it down. Added in this, there 

 are generally some cavilling, captious fellows in every field, who extol 

 a run to the master's face, and abuse it behind his back. So it was 

 on the present occasion. The men of the hunt — Charley Slapp, 

 Lumpleg, Guano, Crane, Washball, and others — lauded and magnified 

 it into something magnificent ; while Fossick, Fyle, Wake, Blossom- 

 nose, and others of the " flat-hat hunt," pronounced it a niceish thing 

 — a pretty burst ; and Mr. Vosper, who had hunted for five-and- 

 twenty seasons without ever subscribing one farthing to hounds, 

 always declaring that each season was " his last," or that he was 

 going to confine himself entirely to some other pack, said it was 

 nothing to make a row about, that he had seen fifty better things 

 with the Tinglebury harriers, and never a word said. 



" Well," said Sponge to Spraggon, between the whiffs of a cigar, 

 as they rode together ; " it wasn't so bad, was it ?" 



