Mr. Sponge, who got well through the wood, has been going at his ease, the
great striding brown throwing the large fields behind him with ease, and
taking his leaps safely and well. He now shows to the front, and old Tom,
who is still 'F--o--o--r--rarding' to his hounds, either rather falls back
to the field or the field draws upon him. At all events they get together
somehow. A belt of Scotch fir plantation, with a stiffish fence on each
side, tries their mettle and the stoutness of their hats: crash they get
through it, the noise they make among the thorns and rotten branches
resembling the outburst of a fire. Several gentlemen here decline under
cover of the trees.
'F--o--o--r--rard!' screams old Tom, as he dives through the stiff fence
and lands in the field outside the plantation. He might have saved his
breath, for the hounds were beating him as it was. Mr. Sponge bores through
the same place, little aided, however, by anything old Tom has done to
clear the way for him, and the rest follow in his wake.
The field is now reduced to six, and two of the number, Mr.
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