It was, however, no time for thinking. The cry of hounds became more distinct--nearer and nearer they came, fuller and more melodious; but, alas! it was no music to Sponge. Presently the cheering of hunters was heard--'FOR--_rard_! FOR--_rard_!' and anon the rate of a whip farther back. Another second, and hounds, horses, and men were in view, streaming away over the large pasture on the left. There was a high, straggling fence between Sponge and the field, thick enough to prevent their identifying him, but not sufficiently high to screen him altogether. Sponge pulled round the piebald, and gathered himself together like a man going to be shot. The hounds came tearing full cry to where he was; there was a breast-high scent, and every one seemed to have it. They charged the fence at a wattled pace a few yards below where he sat, and flying across the deep dirty lane, dashed full cry into the pasture beyond. 'Hie back!' cried Sponge. 'Hie back!' trying to turn them; but instead of the piebald carrying him in front of the pack, as Sponge wanted, he took to rearing, and plunging, and pawing the air. The hounds meanwhile dashed jealously on without a scent, till first one and then another feeling ashamed, gave in; and at last a general lull succeeded the recent joyous cry. Awful period! terrible to any one, but dreadful to a stranger! Though Sponge was in the road, he well knew that no one has any business anywhere but with hounds, when a fox is astir. 'Hold hard!' was now the cry, and the perspiring riders and lathered steeds came to a standstill. 'Twang--twang--twang,' went a shrill horn; and a couple of whips, singling themselves out from the field, flew over the fence to where the hounds were casting. 'Twang--twang--twang,' went the horn again. Meanwhile Sponge sat enjoying the following observations, which a westerly wind wafted into his ear. 'Oh, d--n me! that man in the lane's headed the fox,' puffed one. 'Who is it?' gasped another. 'Tom Washball!' exclaimed a third. 'Heads more foxes than any man in the country,' puffed a fourth. 'Always nicking and skirting,' exclaimed a fifth. 'Never comes to the meet,' added a sixth. 'Come on a cow to-day,' observed another. 'Always chopping and changing,' added another; 'he'll come on a giraffe next.' Having commenced his career with the 'F.H.H.' so inauspiciously and yet escaped detection, Mr. Sponge thought of letting Tom Washball enjoy the honours of his _faux-pas_, and of sneaking quietly home as soon as the hounds hit off the scent; but unluckily, just as they were crossing the lane, what should heave in sight, cantering along at his leisure, but the redoubtable Multum in Parvo, who, having got rid of old Leather by bumping and thumping his leg against a gate-post, was enjoying a line of his own.