The Major now all hurry scurry, just like a case of “second horses! second horses! where’s my fellow with my second horse?” at a check in Leicestershire, beckons the Bumbler up to Billy; and despite of our friend’s remonstrance, who has got on such terms with Napoleon as to allow of his taking the liberty of spurring him, and would rather remain where he is, insists upon putting him upon the mare again, observing, that he couldn’t think of taking the only spare ‘orse from a gen’lman who had done him the distinguished honour of leaving the Earl’s establishment for his ‘umble pack; and so, in the excitement of the moment, Billy is hustled off one horse and hurried on to another, as if a moment’s hesitation would be fatal to the fray. The Major then, addressing the Bumbler in an undertone, says, “Now walk that ‘orse quietly home, and get him some linseed tea, and have him done up by the time we get in.” He then spurs gallantly up to the front, as though he expected the hounds to be off again at score. There was no need of such energy, for puss has set them a puzzle that will take them some time to unravel; but it saved an argument with Billy, and perhaps the credit of the bay. He now goes drooping and slouching away, very unlike the cock-horse he came out. Meanwhile, the hounds have shot out and contracted, and shot out and contracted—and tried and tested, and tried and tested—every tuft and every inch of burnt ground, while Solomon sits motionless between them and the head mopping chattering field. “Must be on,” observes Caleb Rennison, the horse-breaker, whose three-year-old began fidgetting and neighing. “Back, I say,” speculated Bonnet, whose domicile lay to the rear. “Very odd,” observed Captain Nabley, “they ran her well to here.” “Hares are queer things,” said old Duffield, wishing he had her by the ears for the pot. “Far more hunting with a hare nor a fox,” observed Mr. Rintoul, who always praised his department of the chase. “Must have squatted,” observes old “Wotherspoon, taking a pinch of snuff, and placing his double gold eye-glasses on his nose to reconnoitre the scene. “Lies very close, if she has,” rejoins Godfrey Faulder, flopping at a furze-bush as he spoke. “Lost her, I fear,” ejaculated Mr. Trail, who meant to beg her for a christening dinner if they killed.