e, gathering up the reins in a bunch, 'how many knots an
hour can this 'orse go?'

'Twenty,' replied the man, thinking he meant miles.

'Let her go, then!' exclaimed the captain, kicking the horse's sides with
his spurless heels.

Mr. Watchorn now mounted Harkaway; Sir Harry scrambled on to Hit-me-hard;
Miss Howard was hoisted on to Groggytoes, and all the rest being 'fit' with
horses of some sort or other, and the races in the front being over the
juveniles poured into the yard. Lady Scattercash's pony-phaeton turned out,
and our friends were at length ready for a start.

CHAPTER LXV

THE HUNT

While the foregoing arrangements were in progress, Mr. Watchorn had desired
Slarkey, the knife-boy, to go into the old hay-loft and take the
three-legged fox he would find, and put him down among the laurels by the
summer-house, where he would draw up to him all 'reg'lar' like.
Accordingly, Slarkey went, but the old cripple having mounted the rafters,
Slarkey didn't see him, or rather seeing but one fox, he clutched him, with
a greater regard to his not biting him than to seeing how many legs he had;
consequently he bagged an uncommonly fine old dog fox, that Wiley Tom had
just stolen from Lord Scamperdale's new cover at Faggotfurze; and it was
not until Slarkey put him down among the bushes, and saw how lively he
went, that he found out his mistake. However, there was no help for it,
and he had just time to pocket the bag when Watchorn's half-drunken cheer,
and the reverberating cracks of ponderous whips on either side of the Dean,
announced the approach of the pack.

'He-leu in there!' cried Watchorn to the hounds. ''Ord, dommee, but it's
slippy,' said he to himself. 'Have at him. Plunderer, good dog! I wish I
may be Cardinal Wiseman for comin',' added he, seeing how his breath showed
on the air. 'Ho-o-i-cks! p_a_sh 'im hup! I'll be dashed if I shan't be
down!' exclaimed he, as his horse slid a long slide. 'He-leu, in!
Conqueror, old boy!' continued he, exclaiming loud enough for Mr. Sponge
who was drawing near to hear, 'find us a fox that'll give us five and forty
minnits!' the speaker inwardly hoping they might chop their bagman in
cover. 'Y-o-o-icks! rout him out!' continued he, getting more energetic.
'Y-o-o-icks! wind him! Y-o-o-icks! stir us hup a teaser!'

'No go, I think,' observed George Cheek, ambling up on his leggy weed.

'No go, ye young infidel,' growled Watchorn, 'who taught you to talk about
g