“Yes,” added Augustus, “oh! oh! oh! you really must excuse us, Gernon, he! he! he! for laughing a little at your griffinish mistake; indeed, you have been chasing a villager; but you are not the first that has made such a blunder. Come,” he continued, “here’s your steed; mount once more, and we’ll show you some real sport. I see you are game to the backbone, and will prove a staunch hog-hunter.” I was mortified at my blunder, but this piece of flattery acted as a cataplasm to my wounded spirit; so I thought it best to join in the laugh against myself, and remounting my tangan, and re-adjusting the stirrup, we once more continued our route. After crossing a bare plain, we found ourselves on the banks of the river, covered for miles with a belt of grass and long reeds. The beaters were now put in, and dismal yelling and shouting commenced. In a few minutes the cry of _sewer, sewer!_ (“hog, hog!”) arose from many voices; the reeds ahead waved and rustled, and in a moment a tremendous boar burst from the cover, and bore right away across the hard plain, towards the cultivation. Away went Augustus in gallant style, with a yell or war-whoop that made the welkin ring. The second mate joined chase right before the wind; my little hard-mouthed Punch stuck down his head, laid back his ears, and, unbidden, followed next, keenly alive to the sport, though I had a hard matter to manage him and my long spear to boot; and in a moment more the Frenchman thundered past, with brandished spear and horse tight in hand. “Ha! ha!” said he, as he passed me, “now you vill see de death of de veritable vild hogue.” Augustus gained on the boar, who, with his milk-white tusks, bristly back, and sidelong look, presented a most formidable aspect, and was evidently an ugly customer. The planter pushed him closely, and, in passing, delivered his spear with such effect, that it stuck bolt upright in the back of the boar, who nevertheless continued his onward course, as if spitted for the feast. It was now the turn of De la Chasse; up he came, and in capital style delivered his spear with a _coup de théâtre_ just behind the shoulder, wheeled round his horse with a “ha! ha!” and the monster rolled over and over. He was a magnificent boar, with a hock like a bullock’s, terrific tusks, and such a neck of brawn! e’en such a brute as one sees Madame Diana flying after, barelegged, in an old tapestry, or playing pitch and toss with a score of dogs in one of Snyder’s noble pictures. But ’twas all up with him now; his little blood-shot eyes were half-closed, his tongue was out, and all his sinews and muscles were stiffened in death. “’Tis ver fine hogue,” said the Frenchman, looking up, after contemplating, him for some minutes in mute delight, and pulling out his gory spear, buried two feet deep in the shoulder; “but I give him dat last poke ver well, eh! by Jhobs?”