in blue were
altogether lost in the distance. A quarter of a mile or so this way were a
couple of dots of horsemen, one on a white, the other on a dark
colour--most likely Jones, the keeper, and Farmer Stubble, on the foaly
mare. Then, a little nearer, was a man in a hedge, trying to coax his horse
after him, stopping the way of two boys in white trousers, whose ponies
looked like rats. Again, a little nearer, were some of the persevering
ones--men who still hold on in the forlorn hopes of a check--all
dark-coated, and mostly trousered. Then came the last of the red-coats--Tom
Washball, Charley Joyce, and Sam Sloman, riding well in the first flight of
second horsemen--his lordship's pad-groom, Mr. Fossick's man in drab with a
green collar, Mr. Wake's in blue, also a lad in scarlet and a flat hat,
with a second horse for the huntsman. Drawing still nearer came the
ruck--men in red, men in brown, men in livery, a farmer or two in fustian,
all mingled together; and a few hundred yards before these, and close upon
his lordship, were the _elite_ of the field--five men in scarlet and one in
black. Let us see who they are. By the powers, Mr. Sponge is first!--Sponge
sailing away at his ease, followed by Jack, who is staring at him through
his great lamps, longing to launch out at him, but as yet wanting an
excuse; Sponge having ridden with judgement--judgement, at least, in
everything except in having taken the lead of Jack. After Jack comes old
black-booted Blossomnose; and Messrs. Wake, Fossick, and Fyle, complete our
complement of five. They are all riding steadily and well; all very irate,
however, at the stranger for going before them, and ready to back Jack in
anything he may say or do.

On, on they go; the hounds still pressing forward, though not carrying
quite so good a head as before. In truth, they have run four miles in
twenty minutes; pretty good going anywhere except upon paper, where they
always go unnaturally fast. However, there they are, still pressing on,
though with considerably less music than before.

After rounding Newington Hill, they got into a wilder and worse sort of
country, among moorish, ill-cultivated land, with cold unwholesome-looking
fallows. The day, too, seemed changing for the worse; a heavy black cloud
hanging overhead. The hounds were at length brought to their noses.

His lordship, who had been riding all eyes, ears, and fears, foresaw the
probability of this; and pulling-to his horse,