The hounds, to be sure, wanted keeping together, for Frantic as usual had
shot ahead, while the gorged pigpailers could never extricate themselves
from the ponies.
'F-o-o-o-r-r-a-r-d! f-o-o-o-r-r-a-r-d! f-o-o-o-r-r-a-r-d!' elongated
Watchorn, rising in his stirrups, and looking back with a grin at George
Cheek, who was plying his weed with the whip, exclaiming, 'Ah, you
confounded young warmint, I'll give you a warmin'! I'll teach you to jaw
about 'untin'!'
As he turned his head straight to look at his hounds, he was shocked to see
Frantic falling backwards from a first attempt to leap the park-palings,
and just as she gathered herself for a second effort, Desperate, Chatterer,
and Galloper, charged in line and got over. Then came the general rush of
the pack, attended with the usual success--some over, some back, some a-top
of others.
'Oh, the devil!' exclaimed Watchorn, pulling up short in a perfect agony of
despair. 'Oh, the devil!' repeated he in a lower tone, as Mr. Sponge
approached.
'Where's there a gate?' roared our friend, skating up.
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