“_Hoo-ray!_” cheer some of the unfeeling Hit-im and Hold-im shireites, dropping down into the ford a little below. “_Hoo-ray!_” respond others on the bank, as the Red Otter, as Silverthorne calls His Highness, rises hatless to the top. “Come here, and I’ll help you out!” shouts Peter Linch, eyeing Mr. Hybrid’s vain darts first at the hat and then at the horse. “Featherbedfordshire for ever!” cries Charley Drew, who doesn’t at all like Imperial John. And John, who finds the brook not only a great deal wider, but also a great deal deeper and colder than he expected, is in such a state of confusion that he lands on one side and his horse on the other, so that his chance of further distinction is out for the day. And as he stands shivering and shaking and emptying his hat, he meditates on the vicissitudes of life, the virtues of sobriety, and the rashness of coping with a friend of His Imperial brother, Louis Nap. His horse meanwhile regales upon grass, regardless of the fast receding field. Thus John is left alone in his glory, and we must be indebted to other sources for an account of the finish of this day’s sport. CHAPTER XXXVII. TWO ACCOUNTS OF A RUN; OR, LOOK ON THIS PICTURE. MONSIEUR Jean Rougier having seen the field get small by degrees, if not beautifully less, and having viewed the quivering at the brook, thinking the entertainment over, now dismounted from his wooden steed, and, giving it a crack with his stick, saying it was about as good as his first one, proceeded to perform that sorry exploit of retracing his steps through the country on foot. Thanks to the influence of civilisation, there is never much difficulty now in finding a road; and, Monsieur was soon in one whose grassy hoof-marked sides showed it had been ridden down in chase. Walking in scarlet is never a very becoming proceeding; but, walking in such a scarlet as Jack had on, coupled with such a cap, procured him but little respect from the country people, who took him for one of those scarlet runners now so common with hounds. One man (a hedger) in answer to his question, “If he had seen his horse?” replied, after a good stare—“Nor—nor nobody else;” thinking that the steed was all imaginary, and Jack was wanting to show off: another said, “Coom, coom, that ill not de; you’ve ne horse.” Altogether, Monsieur did not get much politeness from anyone; so he stumped moodily along, venting his spleen as he went.