supplies us, and there not being many, we will just initialise them all,
and let he whom the cap fits put it on.

If we look to the left, nearly abreast of the three couple of hounds
that are leading by some half mile or so, we shall see "Swell"--like a
monkey on a giraffe--striding away in the true Leicestershire style; the
animal contracting its stride after every exertion in pulling its long
legs out of the deep and clayey soil, until the Bromley barber, who has
been quilting his mule along at a fearful rate, and in high dudgeon at
anyone presuming to exercise his profession upon a dumb brute, overtakes
him, and in the endeavour to pass, lays it into his mule in a style that
would insure him rotatory occupation at Brixton for his spindles, should
any member of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals
witness his proceedings; while his friend and neighbour old B----, the
tinker, plies his little mare with the Brummagems, to be ready to ride
over "Swell" the instant the barber gets him down. On the right of the
leading hounds are three crack members of the Surrey, Messrs. B--e,
S--bs, and B--l, all lads who can go; while a long way in the rear of
the body of the pack are some dozen, who, while they sat on the hills,
thought they could also, but who now find out their mistake. Down Windy
Lane, a glimpse of a few red coats may be caught passing the gaps and
weak parts of the fence, among whom we distinctly recognise the worthy
master of the pack, followed by Jorrocks, with his long coat-laps
floating in the breeze, who thinking that "catching-time" must be near
at hand, and being dearly fond of blood, has descended from his high
station to witness the close of the scene. "Vot a pace! and vot a
country!" cries the grocer, standing high in his stirrups, and bending
over the neck of his chestnut as though he were meditating a plunge over
his head; "how they stick to him! vot a pack! by Jove they are at fault
again. Yooi, Pilgrim! Yooi, Warbler, ma load! (lad). Tom, try down the