Indeed, he thought it was clear, from Mr. Sponge's manner, that they had
met, and he was just going to ask him whether it was at Offley's or the
Coal Hole, when a sudden move outside attracted his attention. It was the
hounds.
The huntsman's horse having at length returned from the fiddler hunt, and
being whisped over, and made tolerably decent, Mr. Watchorn, having
exchanged the postilion saddle in which it had been ridden for a horn-cased
hunting one, had mounted, and, opening the kennel-door, had liberated the
pent-up pack, who came tearing out full cry and spread themselves over the
country, regardless alike of the twang, twang, twang of the horn and the
furious onslaught of a couple of stable lads in scarlet and caps, who, true
to the title of 'whippers-in,' let drive at all they could get within reach
of. The hounds had not been out, even to exercise, since the Snobston-Green
day, and were as wild as hawks. They were ready to run anything. Furious
and Furrier tackled with a cow. Bountiful ran a black cart-colt, and made
him leap the haw-haw.
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