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Updated: June 25, 2025
The cry of hounds became more distinct nearer and nearer they came, fuller and more melodious; but, alas! it was no music to Sponge. Presently the cheering of hunters was heard 'FOR rard! FOR rard! and anon the rate of a whip farther back. Another second, and hounds, horses, and men were in view, streaming away over the large pasture on the left.
'F o o r rard! screams old Tom, as he dives through the stiff fence and lands in the field outside the plantation. He might have saved his breath, for the hounds were beating him as it was. Mr. Sponge bores through the same place, little aided, however, by anything old Tom has done to clear the way for him, and the rest follow in his wake.
The three soon get in front; fast as they go, the hounds go faster, and fence after fence is thrown behind them, just as a girl throws her skipping-rope. Tom and the whips follow, grinning with their tongues in their cheeks, Tom still screeching 'F o o o rard! F o o o rard! at intervals.
'F o o r rard! screams old Tom, flying the fence after them, followed by jealous jostling riders in scarlet and colours, some anxious, some easy, some wanting to be at it, some wanting to look as if they did, some wishing to know if there was anything on the far side.
Now Tom tops another fence, rising like a rocket and dropping like a bird; still 'F o o r rard! is the cry away they go at racing pace. The field draws out like a telescope, leaving the largest portion at the end, and many the fair and fat ones in particular seeing the hopelessness of the case, pull up their horses, while yet on an eminence that commands a view.
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