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'I wish I mayn't ketch it,' said Sponge to himself, shuddering at the idea
of having headed him.
It was, however, no time for thinking. The cry of hounds became more
distinct--nearer and nearer they came, fuller and more melodious; but,
alas! it was no music to Sponge. Presently the cheering of hunters was
heard--'FOR--_rard_! FOR--_rard_!' and anon the rate of a
whip farther back. Another second, and hounds, horses, and men were in
view, streaming away over the large pasture on the left.
There was a high, straggling fence between Sponge and the field, thick
enough to prevent their identifying him, but not sufficiently high to
screen him altogether. Sponge pulled round the piebald, and gathered
himself together like a man going to be shot. The hounds came tearing full
cry to where he was; there was a breast-high scent, and every one seemed to
have it. They charged the fence at a wattled pace a few yards below where
he sat, and flying across the deep dirty lane, dashed full cry into the
pasture beyond.
'Hie back!' cried Sponge.


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