'Ah! dash ye, you may have _that_,' said he, cutting at them with his whip as they clustered upon it like a swarm of bees. They had not had a wild fox for five weeks. 'Who-hoop!' cried Mr. Sponge, in the hopes of attracting some of the field. 'WHO-HOOP!' repeated he, as loud as he could halloo. 'Where can they all be, I wonder?' said he, looking around; and echo answered--where? The hounds had now crunched their fox, or as much of him as they wanted. Old Marksman ran about with his head, and Warrior with a haunch. 'Drop it, you old beggar!' cried Mr. Sponge, cutting at Marksman with his whip, and Mr. Sponge being too near to make a trial of speed prudent, the old dog did as he was bid, and slunk away. Our friend then appended this proud trophy to his saddle-flap by a piece of whipcord, and, mounting the now tractable Hercules, began to cast about in search of a landmark. Like most down countries, this one was somewhat deceptive; there were plenty of landmarks, but they were all the same sort--clumps of trees on hill-tops, and plantations on hill-sides, but nothing of a distinguishing character, nothing that a stranger could say, 'I remember seeing that as I came'; or, 'I remember passing that in the run.' The landscape seemed all alike: north, south, east, and west, equally indifferent. 'Curse the thing,' said Mr. Sponge, adjusting himself in his saddle, and looking about; 'I haven't the _slightest_ idea where I am. I'll blow the horn, and see if that will bring any one.' So saying, he applied the horn to his lips, and blew a keen, shrill blast, that spread over the surrounding country, and was echoed back by the distant hills. A few lost hounds cast up from various quarters, in the unexpected way that hounds do come to a horn. Among them were a few branded with S,[4] who did not at all set off the beauty of the rest. ''Ord rot you, you belong to that old ruffian, do you?' said Mr. Sponge, riding and cutting at one with his whip, exclaiming, 'Get away to him, ye beggar, or I'll tuck you up short.' He now, for the first time, saw them together in anything like numbers, and was struck with the queerness and inequality of the whole. They were of all sorts and sizes, from the solemn towering calf-like fox-hound down to the little wriggling harrier. They seemed, too, to be troubled with various complaints and infirmities. Some had the mange; some had blear eyes; some had but one; many were out at the elbows; and not a few down at the toes. However, they had killed a fox, and 'Handsome is that handsome does,' said Mr. Sponge, as, with his horse surrounded by them, he moved on in quest of his way home.