300 mk. sponge's bforting tour. 



CHAPTEK XLVIII. 



HUNTING THE HOUNDS. 



Trampington Hill, whose summit they had just reached as the 

 hounds broke cover, commanded an extensive view over the adjoining 

 vale, and, as Mr. Sponge sat shading his eyes with his hands from a 

 bright wintry sun, he thought he saw them come to a check, and after- 

 wards bend to the left. 



" I really think," said he, addressing his still perspiring compan- 

 ion, " that if you were to make for that road on the left," (pointing 

 one out as seen between the low hedge-rows in the distance) " we 

 might catch them up yet." 



" Left (puff), left (wheeze) ? " replied Mr. Jogglebury Crowdey, 

 staring about with anything but the quickness that marked his move- 

 ments when he dived into Hackberry Dean. 



" Don't you see," asked Sponge, tartly, " there's a road by the 

 cornstacks yonder ? " pointing them out. 



" I see," replied Jogglebury, blowing freely into his shirt-frill. 

 " I see," repeated he, staring that way ; " but I think (puff) that's a 

 mere (wheeze) occupation road leading to (gasp) nowhere." 



" Never mind, let's try ! " exclaimed Mr. Sponge, giving the rein 

 a jerk, to get the horse into motion again ; adding, " it's no use 

 sitting here, you know, like a couple of fools, when the hounds are 

 running." 



" Couple of (puff) ! " growled Jog, not liking the appellation, and 

 wishing to be home with the long holly. " I don't see anything 

 (wheeze) foolish in the (puff) business." 



" There they are ! " exclaimed Mr. Sponge, who had kept his 

 eye on the spot he last viewed them, and now saw the horsemen titt- 

 up-ing across a grass field in the easy way that distance makes very 

 uneasy riding look. " Gut along / " exclaimed he, laying into the 

 horse's hind-quarters with his hunting-whip. 



"DonH ! the horse is (puff) tired," retorted Jog, angrily holding 

 the horse, instead of letting him go to Sponge's salute. 



" Not a bit on't ! " exclaimed Sponge ; "fresh as paint ! Spring 

 him a bit, that's a good fellow ! " added he. 



Jog didn't fancy being dictated to in this way, and just crawled 

 along at his own pace, some six miles an hour, his dull phlegmatic 

 face contrasting with the eager excitement of Mr. Sponge's counte- 

 nance. If it had not been that Jog wanted to see that Leather did 

 not play any tricks with his horse, he would not have gone a yard to 



