that the deer was not in the wood, he called them out, and proceeded to make a cast, followed by the majority of the field.  They trotted about at a brisk pace, first to the right, then to the left, afterwards to the north, and then to the south, over grass, fallow, turnips, potatoes, and flints, through three farmyards, round two horse-ponds, and at the back of a small village or hamlet, without a note, save those of a few babblers.  Everyone seemed to consider it a desperate job.  They were all puzzled; at last they heard a terrible holloaing about a quarter of a mile to the south, and immediately after was espied a group of horsemen, galloping along the road at full speed, in the centre of which was Jorrocks; his green coat wide open, with the tails flying a long way behind that of his horse, his right leg was thrust out, down the side of which he kept applying his ponderous hunting whip, making a most terrible clatter.  As they approached, he singled himself out from the group, and was the first to reach the field.  He immediately burst out into one of his usual hunting energetic strains.  “Oh Jonathan Griffin!  Jonathan Griffin!” said he, “here’s a lamentable occurrence—­a terrible disaster!  Oh dear, oh dear—­we shall never get to Tunbridge—­that unfortunate deer has escaped us, and we shall never see nothing more of him—­rely upon it, he’s killed before this.”  “Why, how’s that?” inquired Griffin, evidently in a terrible perturbation.  “Why,” said Jorrocks, slapping the whip down his leg again, “there’s a little girl tells me, that as she was getting water at the well just at the end of the wood, where we lost him, she saw what she took to be a donkey jump into a return post-chaise from the ‘Bell’, at Seven Oaks, that was passing along the road with the door swinging wide open! and you may rely upon it, it was the deer.  The landlord of the ‘Bell’ will have cut his throat before this, for, you know, he vowed wengeance against us last year, because his wife’s pony-chaise was upset, and he swore that we did it.”  “Oh, but that’s a bad job”, said the huntsman; “what shall we do?” “Here, Tom,” calling to the whipper-in, “jump on to the Hastings coach” (which just came up), “and try if you can’t overtake him, and bring him back, chaise and all, and I’ll follow slowly with the hounds.”  Tom was soon up, the coach bowled on, and Jonathan and the hounds trotted gently forward till they came to a public-house.  Here, as they stopped lamenting over their unhappy fate, and consoling themselves with some cold sherry negus, the post-chaise appeared in sight, with the deer’s head sticking out of the side window with all the dignity of a Lord Mayor.  “Huzza! huzza! huzza!” exclaimed Jorrocks, taking off his hat, “here’s old Tunbridge come back again, huzza! huzza!” “But who’s to pay me for the po-chay,” said the driver, pulling up; “I must be paid before I let him out.”  “How much?” says Jonathan.  “Why, eighteen-pence a mile, to be sure, and three-pence a mile to the driver.”  “No,” says Jorrocks, “that won’t do, yours is a return chay; however, here’s five shillings for you, and now, Jonathan, turn him out again—­he’s quite fresh after his ride—­and see, he’s got some straw in the bottom.”