horn, Mr. Sponge went on, the
brown laying himself out as if still full of running. Cockthropple Dean was
now close at hand, and in all probability the fox would not leave it. So
thought Mr. Sponge as he dived into it, astonished at the chorus and echo
of the hounds.

[Illustration: 'HE'S AWAY!--REET 'CROSS TORNOPS']

'Tally ho!' shouted a countryman on the opposite side; and the road Sponge
had taken being favourable to the point, he made for it at a hand-gallop,
horn in hand, to blow as soon as he got there.

'He's away!' cried the man as soon as our friend appeared; 'reet 'cross
tornops!' added he, pointing with his hoe.

Mr. Sponge then put his horse's head that way, and blew a long shrill
reverberating blast. As he paused to take breath and listen, he heard the
sound of horses' hoofs, and presently a stentorian voice, half frantic with
rage, exclaimed from behind:

'WHO THE DICKENS ARE YOU?'

'Who the Dickens are you?' retorted Mr. Sponge, without looking round.

'They commonly call me the EARL OF SCAMPERDALE,' roared the same
sweet voice, 'and those are my hounds.'

'They're not your hounds!' snapped Mr. Sponge, now looking round on his
big-spectacled, flat-hatted lordship, who was closely followed by his
double, Mr. Spraggon.

'Not my hounds!' screeched his lordship. 'Oh, ye barber's apprentice! Oh,
ye draper's assistant! Oh ye unmitigated Mahomedon! Sing out, Jack! sing
out! For Heaven's sake, sing out!' added he, throwing out his arms in
perfect despair.

'Not his lordship's hounds!' roared Jack, now rising in his stirrups and
brandishing his big whip. 'Not his lordship's hounds! Tell me _that_, when
they cost him five-and-twenty 'underd--two thousand five 'underd a year!
Oh, by Jingo, but that's a pretty go! If they're not his lordship's hounds,
I should like to know whose they are?' and thereupon Jack wiped the foam
from his mouth on his sleeve.

'Sir Harry's!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, again putting the horn to his lips,
and blowing another shrill blast.

'Sir Harry's!' screeched his lordship in disgust, for he hated the very
sound of his name--'Sir Harry's! Oh, you rusty-booted ruffian! Tell me that
to my very face!'

'Sir Harry's!' repeated Jack, again standing erect in his stirrups. 'What!
impeach his lordship's integrity--oh, by Jove, there's an end of
everything! Death before dishonour! Slugs in a saw-pit! Pistols and coffee
for two! Cock Pheasant at Weybridge, six o'clock i' the mornin'!' A