At the end of eighteen minutes more the hounds ran into their fox in the little green valley below Mountnessing Wood, and Mr. Bragg had him stretched on the green with the pack baying about him, and the horses of the field-riders getting led about by the country people, while the riders stood glorying in the splendour of the thing. All had a direct interest in making it out as good as possible, and Mr. Bragg was quite ready to appropriate as much praise as ever they liked to give. ''Ord dim him,' said he, turning up the fox's grim head with his foot, 'but Mr. Bragg's an awkward customer for gen'lemen of your description.' 'You hunted him well!' exclaimed Charley Slapp, who was trumpeter general of the establishment. 'Oh, sir,' replied Bragg, with a smirk and a condescending bow, 'if Richard Bragg can't kill foxes, I don't know who can.' Just then 'Puffington and Co.' hove in sight up the valley, their faces beaming with delight as the tableau before them told the tale. They hastened to the spot. 'How many brace is that?' asked Puffington, with the most matter-of-course air, as he trotted up, and reined in his horse outside the circle. 'Seventeen brace, your grace, I mean to say my lord, that's to say _sur_,' replied Bragg, with a strong emphasis on the _sur_, as if to say, 'I'm not used to you snobs of commoners.' 'Seventeen brace!' sneered Jack Spraggon to Sponge, adding, in a whisper, 'More like _seven_ foxes.' 'And how many run to ground?' asked Puffington, alighting. 'Four brace,' replied Bragg, stooping to cut off the brush. We were wrong in saying that Bragg only allowed Puff the privilege of nodding his head to say when he might throw off. He let him lead the 'lie gallop' in the kill department. Mr. Puffington then presented Mr. Sponge with the brush, and the usual solemnities being observed, the sherry flasks were produced and drained, the biscuits munched, and, amidst the smoke of cigars, the ring broke up in great good-will. CHAPTER XXXIX Writing A Run [Illustration: letter T]