off. At length time being called, say twenty minutes to eleven, and Mr.
Jorrocks, Nodding Homer, and the principal subscribers having cast up,
the hounds approach the cover. "Yooi in there!" shouts Tom Hills, who
has long hunted this crack pack; and crack! crack! crack! go the whips
of some scores of sportsmen. "Yelp, yelp, yelp," howl the hounds; and in
about a quarter of an hour Tom has not above four or five couple at his
heels. This number being a trifle, Tom runs his prad at a gap in the
fence by the wood-side; the old nag goes well at it, but stops short at
the critical moment, and, instead of taking the ditch, bolts and wheels
round. Tom, however, who is "large in the boiling pieces," as they say
at Whitechapel, is prevented by his weight from being shaken out of his
saddle; and, being resolved to take no denial, he lays the crop of his
hunting-whip about the head of his beast, and runs him at the same spot
a second time, with an _obligato_ accompaniment of his spur-rowels,
backed by a "curm along then!" issued in such a tone as plainly informs
his quadruped he is in no joking humour. These incentives succeed in
landing Tom and his nag in the wished-for spot, when, immediately,
the wood begins to resound with shouts of "Yoicks True-bo-y, yoicks
True-bo-y, yoicks push him up, yoicks wind him!" and the whole pack
begin to work like good 'uns. Occasionally may be heard the howl of some
unfortunate hound that has been caught in a fox trap, or taken in a hare
snare; and not unfrequently the discordant growls of some three or
four more, vociferously quarrelling over the venerable remains of some
defunct rabbit. "Oh, you rogues!" cries Mr. Jorrocks, a cit rapturously
fond of the sport. After the lapse of half an hour the noise in the wood
for a time increases audibly. 'Tis Tom chastising the gourmands. Another
quarter of an hour, and a hound that has finished his coney bone slips
out of the wood, and takes a roll upon the greensward, opining, no
doubt, that such pastime is preferable to scratching his hide among
brambles in the covers. "Hounds have no right to opine," opines the head