point of Shillington Hill, made direct for the little village of Berrington Roothings below.  Here the hounds came to a check, but Mr. Bragg, who had ridden gallantly on his favourite bay, as fine an animal as ever went, though somewhat past work of mouth, was well up with his hounds, and with a ‘gentle rantipole!’ and a single wave of his arm, proceeded to make one of those scientific rests for which this eminent huntsman is so justly celebrated.  Hitting off the scent like a coachman, they went away again at score, and passing by Moorlinch Farm buildings, and threading the strip of plantation by Bexley Burn, he crossed Silverbury Green, leaving Longford Hutch to the right, and passing straight on by the gibbet at Harpen.  Here, then, the gallant pack, breaking from scent to view, ran into their box in the open close upon Mountnessing Wood, evidently his point from the first, and into which a few more strides would have carried him.  It was as fine a run as ever was seen, and the grunting of the hounds was the admiration of all who heard it.  The distance could not have been less than ten miles as a cow goes.  The justly popular owner of this most celebrated pack, though riding good fourteen stones, led the Walters on his famous chestnut horse Tappy Lappey.  After this truly brilliant affair, Mr. Puffington, like a thorough sportsman, and one who never thrashes his hounds unnecessarily—­unlike some masters who never know when to leave off—­returned to Hanby House, where a distinguished party of noblemen and gentlemen partook of his splendid hospitality.

And the considerate Bloomer added of her own accord, ’We hope we shall have to record many such runs in the imperishable columns of our paper.’

[Illustration:  MISS GRIMES GIVING THE ‘CORRECTED’ COPY TO THE PRINTER]

CHAPTER XLI

A DINNER AND A DEAL

Another grand dinner, on a more extensive scale than its predecessor, marked the day of this glorious run.

‘There’s goin’ to be a great blow-out,’ observed Mr. Spraggon to Mr. Sponge, as, crossing his hands and resting them on the crown of his head, he threw himself back in his easy-chair, to recruit after the exertion of concocting the description of the run.

‘How d’ye know?’ asked Sponge.

‘Saw by the dinner table as we passed,’ replied Jack, adding, ’it reaches nearly to the door.’

‘Indeed,’ said Sponge, ‘I wonder who’s coming?’

’Most likely Guano again; indeed, I know he is, for I asked his groom if he was going home, and he said no; and Lumpleg, you may be sure, and possibly old Blossomnose, Slapp, and, very likely, young Pacey.’

’Are they chaps with any “go” in them?—­shake their elbows, or anything of that sort?’ asked Sponge, working away as if he had the dice-box in his hand.

‘I hardly know,’ replied Jack thoughtfully.  ’I hardly know.  Young Pacey, I think, might be made summut on; but his uncle, Major Screw, looks uncommon sharp after him, and he’s a minor.’