'Hoick to,
Pillager! H--o--o--ick!' screamed he, in a long-drawn note, that thrilled
through every frame, and set the horses a-capering.
Ere Frosty's prolonged screech was fairly finished, there was such an
outburst of melody, and such a shaking of the gorse-bushes, as plainly
showed there was no safety for Reynard in cover; and great was the bustle
and commotion among the horsemen. Mr. Fossick lowered his hat-string and
ran the fox's tooth through the buttonhole; Fyle drew his girths; Washball
took a long swig at his hunting-horn-shaped monkey; Major Mark and Mr.
Archer threw away their cigar ends; Mr. Bliss drew on his dogskin gloves;
Mr. Wake rolled the thong of his whip round the stick, to be better able to
encounter his puller; Mr. Sparks got a yokel to take up a link of his curb;
George Smith and Joe Smith looked at their watches; Sandy McGregor, the
factor, filled his great Scotch nose with Irish snuff, exclaiming, as he
dismissed the balance from his fingers by a knock against his thigh, 'Oh,
my mon, aw think this tod will gie us a ran!' while Blossomnose might be
seen stealing gently forward, on the far side of a thick fence, for the
double purpose of shirking Jawleyford and getting a good start.
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