headed by a party of gipsies, and, changing his point, bends southward and again reaches the hills, along which some score of horsemen have planted themselves in the likeliest places to head him.  Reynard, however, is too deep for them, and has stolen down unperceived.  Poor Jorrocks, what with the violent exertion of riding, his fall, and the souvenir of the cesspool that he still bears about him, pulls up fairly exhausted.  “Oh, dear,” says he, scraping the thick of the filth off his coat with his whip, “I’m reglarly blown, I earn’t go down with the ’ounds this turn; but, my good fellow,” turning to the Yorkshireman, who was helping to purify him, “don’t let me stop you, go down by all means, but mind, bear in mind the quarter of house-lamb—­at half-past five to a minute.”

[Footnote 12:  There is a superstition among sportsmen that they are sure to get a fall the first day they appear in anything new.]

Many of the cits now gladly avail themselves of the excuse of assisting Mr. Jorrocks to clean himself for pulling up, but as soon as ever those that are going below hill are out of sight and they have given him two or three wipes, they advise him to let it “dry on,” and immediately commence a different sort of amusement—­each man dives into his pocket and produces the eatables.

Part of Jorrocks’s half-quartern loaf was bartered with the captain of an East Indiaman for a slice of buffalo-beef.  The dentist exchanged some veal sandwiches with a Jew for ham ones; a lawyer from the Borough offered two slices of toast for a hard-boiled egg; in fact there was a petty market “ouvert” held.  “Now, Tomkins, where’s the bottle?” demanded Jenkins.  “Vy, I thought you would bring it out to-day,” replied he; “I brought it last time, you know.”  “Take a little of mine, sir,” said a gentleman, presenting a leather-covered flask—­“real Thomson and Fearon, I assure you.”  “I wish someone would fetch an ocean of porter from the nearest public,” said another.  “Take a cigar, sir?” “No; I feel werry much obliged, but they always make me womit.”  “Is there any gentleman here going to Halifax, who would like to make a third in a new yellow barouche, with lavender-coloured wheels, and pink lining?” inquired Mr.——­, the coach-maker.  “Look at the hounds, gentlemen sportsmen, my noble sportsmen!” bellowed out an Epsom Dorling’s correct—­cardseller—­and turning their eyes in the direction in which he was looking, our sportsmen saw them again making for the hills.  Pepper-and-salt first, and oh, what a goodly tail was there!—­three quarters of a mile in length, at the least.  Now up they come—­the “corps de reserve” again join, and again a party halt upon the hills.  Again Tom Hills exchanges horses; and again the hounds go on in full cry.  “I must be off,” said a gentleman in balloon-like leathers to another tiger; “we have just time to get back to town, and ride round by the park before it is dark—­much better than seeing the end of this brute.  Let us go”;