uiser and Marmion, who had often been at the game before, and
knew what Wily Tom's hat on the ground meant, flew to him full cry, drawing
all their companions after them.

'I think he's away to the west,' said Tom in an undertone, resting his hand
on Watchorn's horse's shoulder; 'back home,' added he, jerking his head
with a knowing leer of his roguish eye. 'They're on him!' exclaimed he
after a pause, as the outburst of melody proclaimed that the hounds had
crossed his line. Then there was such racing and striving among the field
to get up, and such squeezing and crowding, and 'Mind, my horse kicks!' at
the little white hunting wicket leading into cover. 'Knock down the wall!'
exclaimed one. 'Get out of the way; I'll ride over it!' roared another. 'We
shall be here all day!' vociferated a third. 'That's a header!' cried
another, as a clatter of stones was followed by a pair of white breeches
summerseting in the air with a horse underneath. 'It's Tom Sawbones, the
doctor!' exclaimed one, 'and he can mend himself.' 'By Jove! but he's
killed!' shrieked another. 'Not a bit of it,' added a third, as the dead
man rose and ran after his horse. 'Let Mr. Bugles through,' cried Sir
Harry, seeing his friend, or rather his wife's friend, was fretting the
Arab.

Meanwhile, the melody of hounds increased, and each man, as he got through
the little gate, rose in his stirrups and hustled his horse along the green
ride to catch up those on before. The plantation was about twenty acres,
rather thick and briary at the bottom; and master Reynard, finding it was
pretty safe, and, moreover, having attempted to break just by where some
chawbacons were ploughing, had headed short back, so that, when the excited
field rushed through the parallel gate on the far side of the plantation,
expecting to see the pack streaming away over the downs, they found most of
the hounds with their heads in the air, some looking for halloos, others
watching their companions trying to carry the scent over the fallow.

Watchorn galloped up in the frantic state half-witted huntsmen generally
are, and one of the impromptu whips being in attendance, got quickly round
the hounds, and commenced a series of assaults upon them that very soon
sent them scuttling to Mr. Watchorn for safety. If they had been at the
hares again, or even worrying sheep, he could not have rated or flogged
more severely.

'MARKSMAN! MARKSMAN! _ough, ye old Divil, get to him!_' roared the
wh