allant Hercules was a good
deal subdued by the distance and severity of the pace, but there are few
horses that get to the end of a run that have not sufficient kick left in
them to do mischief to hounds, especially when raised or frightened by the
smell of blood; nevertheless, there was no help for it. Mr. Sponge knew
that unless he carried off some trophy, it would never be believed he had
killed the fox. Considering all this, and also that there was no one to
tell what damage he did, he just rode slap into the middle of the pack, as
Marksman, Furious, Thunderer, and Bountiful were in the act of despatching
the fox. Singwell and Saladin (puppies) having been sent away howling, the
one bit through the jowl, the other through the foot.

'Ah! leave him--leave him--leave him!' screeched Mr. Sponge, trampling over
Warrior and Tempest, the brown horse lashing out furiously at Melody and
Lapwing. 'Ah, leave him! leave him!' repeated he, throwing himself off his
horse by the fox, and clearing a circle with his whip, aided by the hoofs
of the animal. There lay the fox before him killed, but as yet little
broken by the pack. He was a noble fellow; bright and brown, in the full
vigour of life and condition, with a gameness, even in death, that no other
animal shows. Mr. Sponge put his foot on the body, and quickly whipped off
his brush. Before he had time to pocket it, the repulsed pack broke in upon
him and carried off the carcass.

'Ah! dash ye, you may have _that_,' said he, cutting at them with his whip
as they clustered upon it like a swarm of bees. They had not had a wild fox
for five weeks.

'Who-hoop!' cried Mr. Sponge, in the hopes of attracting some of the field.
'WHO-HOOP!' repeated he, as loud as he could halloo. 'Where can
they all be, I wonder?' said he, looking around; and echo answered--where?

The hounds had now crunched their fox, or as much of him as they wanted.
Old Marksman ran about with his head, and Warrior with a haunch.

'Drop it, you old beggar!' cried Mr. Sponge, cutting at Marksman with his
whip, and Mr. Sponge being too near to make a trial of speed prudent, the
old dog did as he was bid, and slunk away.

Our friend then appended this proud trophy to his saddle-flap by a piece of
whipcord, and, mounting the now tractable Hercules, began to cast about in
search of a landmark. Like most down countries, this one was somewhat
deceptive; there were plenty of landmarks, but they were all the same
sor