a pint of sherry from among them before
he recovered from the shock. So anxious were they about him, that not one
of them thought of resuming the chase. Even the lagging whips couldn't
leave him. George Cheek was presently _hors de combat_ in a hedge, and
Watchorn seeing him 'see-sawing,' exclaimed, as he slipped through a gate:

'I'll send your mar to you, you young 'umbug.'

Watchorn would gladly have stopped too, for the fumes of the champagne were
dead within him, and the riding was becoming every minute more dangerous.
He trotted on, hoping each jump of brown boots would be the last, and
inwardly wishing the wearer at the devil. Thus he passed through a
considerable extent of country, over Harrowdale Lordship, or reputed
Lordship, past Roundington Tower, down Sloppyside Banks, and on to
Cheeseington Green; the severity of his affliction being alone mitigated by
the intervention of accommodating roads and lines of field gates. These,
however, Mr. Sponge generally declined, and went crashing on, now over high
places, now over low, just as they came in his way, closely followed by the
fair Lucy Glitters.

'Well, I never see'd sich a man as that!' exclaimed Watchorn, eyeing Mr.
Sponge clearing a stiff flight of rails, with a gap near at hand. 'Nor
woman nouther!' added he, as Miss Glitters did the like. 'Well, I'm dashed
if it arn't dangerous!' continued he, thumping his hand against his thick
thigh, as the white nearly slipped upon landing. 'F-o-r-r-ard! for-rard!
hoop!' screeched he, as he saw Miss Glitters looking back to see where he
was. 'F-o-r-rard! for-rard!' repeated he; adding, in apparent delight, 'My
eyes, but we're in for a stinger! Hold up, horse!' roared he, as his horse
now went starring up to the knees through a long sheet of ice, squirting
the clayey water into his rider's face. 'Hold up!' repeated he, adding,
'I'm dashed if one mightn't as well be crashin' over the Christial Palace
as ridin' over a country froze in this way! 'Ord rot it, how cold it is!'
continued he, blowing on his finger-ends; 'I declare my 'ands are quite
numb. Well done, old brown bouts!' exclaimed he, as a crash on the right
attracted his attention; 'well done, old brown bouts!--broke every bar i'
the gate!' adding, 'but I'll let Mr. Buckram know the way his beautiful
horses are 'bused. Well,' continued he, after a long skate down the grassy
side of Ditchburn Lane, 'there's no fun in this--none whatever. Who the
deuce would be a