Watchorn fell back, and the astonished
pack poured over his prostrate body, regardless alike of his holiday coat,
his tidy tie, and toilenette vest. What a scrimmage! What a kick-up was
there! Away the hounds scampered, towling and howling, some up to the
fleshwheel, to see if there was any meat; some to the bone heap, to see if
there was any there; others down to the dairy, to try and effect an
entrance in it; while Launcher, and Lightsome, and Burster, rushed to the
backyard of Nonsuch House, and were presently over ears in the pig-pail.
'Get me my horn! get me my whop!--get me my cap!--get me my bouts!'
exclaimed Watchorn, as he recovered his legs, and saw his wife eyeing the
scene from the door. 'Get me my bouts!--get me my cap!--get me my
whop!--get me my horn, woman!' continued he, reversing the order of things,
and rubbing the hounds' feetmarks off his clothes as he spoke.
Mrs. Watchorn was too well drilled to dwell upon orders, and she met her
lord and master in the passage with the enumerated articles in her hand.
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