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'He is that!' replied his lordship, staring at him with all his might.
Then they rode on, and were presently rounding Newington Hill themselves,
the hounds packing well together, and carrying a famous head.
His lordship now looked to see what was going on behind.
Scrambleford Hill was far in the rear. Jawleyford and the boy in blue were
altogether lost in the distance. A quarter of a mile or so this way were a
couple of dots of horsemen, one on a white, the other on a dark
colour--most likely Jones, the keeper, and Farmer Stubble, on the foaly
mare. Then, a little nearer, was a man in a hedge, trying to coax his horse
after him, stopping the way of two boys in white trousers, whose ponies
looked like rats. Again, a little nearer, were some of the persevering
ones--men who still hold on in the forlorn hopes of a check--all
dark-coated, and mostly trousered. Then came the last of the red-coats--Tom
Washball, Charley Joyce, and Sam Sloman, riding well in the first flight of
second horsemen--his lordship's pad-groom, Mr.


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