Before he had time to pocket it, the repulsed pack broke in upon
him and carried off the carcass.
'Ah! dash ye, you may have _that_,' said he, cutting at them with his whip
as they clustered upon it like a swarm of bees. They had not had a wild fox
for five weeks.
'Who-hoop!' cried Mr. Sponge, in the hopes of attracting some of the field.
'WHO-HOOP!' repeated he, as loud as he could halloo. 'Where can
they all be, I wonder?' said he, looking around; and echo answered--where?
The hounds had now crunched their fox, or as much of him as they wanted.
Old Marksman ran about with his head, and Warrior with a haunch.
'Drop it, you old beggar!' cried Mr. Sponge, cutting at Marksman with his
whip, and Mr. Sponge being too near to make a trial of speed prudent, the
old dog did as he was bid, and slunk away.
Our friend then appended this proud trophy to his saddle-flap by a piece of
whipcord, and, mounting the now tractable Hercules, began to cast about in
search of a landmark. Like most down countries, this one was somewhat
deceptive; there were plenty of landmarks, but they were all the same
sort--clumps of trees on hill-tops, and plantations on hill-sides, but
nothing of a distinguishing character, nothing that a stranger could say,
'I remember seeing that as I came'; or, 'I remember passing that in the
run.
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