, with a pond shining at the end.

Just as Mr. Sponge caught view of the water, the twang of a horn was heard,
and the hounds came pouring, full cry, out of cover, followed by about
twenty variously clad horsemen, and our friend had the satisfaction of
seeing them run clean out of sight, over as fine a country as ever was
crossed. Worst of all, he thought he saw Leather pounding away on the
chestnut.

CHAPTER XLVIII

HUNTING THE HOUNDS

Tramptinton 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 afterwards bend to the left.

'I really think,' said he, addressing his still perspiring companion, '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 movements when he dived
into Hackberry Dean.

'Don't you see,' asked Sponge tartly, 'there's a road by the corn-stacks
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. 'Cut along!'
exclaimed he, laying into the horse's hind-quarters with his hunting-whip.

'Don't! 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