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Sponge could not help thinking that he recognized the
outline of the wicked chestnut, Multum-in-Parvo.
'By the powers, but if it is him,' muttered he to himself, clenching his
fist and grinding his teeth as he spoke, 'but I'll--I'll--I'll make _sich_
an example of you,' meaning of Leather.
Mr. Sponge could not exactly say what he would do, for it was by no means a
settled point whether Leather or he were master. But to the hounds. If it
had not been for Mr. Sponge's shabbiness at the turnpike gate, we really
believe he might now have caught them up, for the road to them was down
hill all the way, and the impetus of the vehicle would have sent the old
screw along. That delay, however, was fatal. Before they had gone a quarter
of the distance the hounds suddenly struck the scent at a hedge-row, and,
with heads up and sterns down, went straight away at a pace that
annihilated all hope. They were out of sight in a minute. It was clearly a
case of kill.
'Well, there's a go!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, folding his arms, and throwing
himself back in the phaeton in disgust.


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