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Updated: June 20, 2025
Watchorn now mounted Harkaway; Sir Harry scrambled on to Hit-me-hard; Miss Howard was hoisted on to Groggytoes, and all the rest being 'fit' with horses of some sort or other, and the races in the front being over the juveniles poured into the yard. Lady Scattercash's pony-phaeton turned out, and our friends were at length ready for a start. While the foregoing arrangements were in progress, Mr.
Watchorn had desired Slarkey, the knife-boy, to go into the old hay-loft and take the three-legged fox he would find, and put him down among the laurels by the summer-house, where he would draw up to him all 'reg'lar' like.
Watchorn placed an inscription, stating that it was presented to him by Sir Harry Scattercash, Baronet, and the noblemen and gentlemen of his hunt, in admiration of his talents as a huntsman and his character as a man. Mr. Sponge then became still more at home.
Puseyism's nothin' to it. And thereupon he indulged in no end of anathemas at Slarkey for bringing the wrong fox. 'About time to take soundings, and cast anchor, isn't it? gasped Captain Bouncey, toiling up red-hot on his pulling horse in a state of utter exhaustion, as Watchorn stood craneing and looking at a rasper through which Mr.
Watchorn had gone to be entertained at a public supper, given by the poachers and fox-stealers of the village of Bark-shot, as a 'mark of respect for his abilities as a sportsman and his integrity as a man, meaning his indifference to his master's interests; while the first-whip had gone to visit his aunt, and the groom was away negotiating the exchange of a cow.
Such ponies! such horses! such hugging! such kicking! such scrambling! and so little progress with many! Sponge, with Lucy Glitters alongside of him, gradually stealing away from the crowd, and creeping up to Mr. Watchorn, who was sailing away with the hounds. 'What a scrimmage! exclaimed her ladyship, standing up in the carriage, and eyeing the Strange confusion in the vale below.
'Oh, the devil! exclaimed Watchorn, pulling up short in a perfect agony of despair. 'Oh, the devil! repeated he in a lower tone, as Mr. Sponge approached. 'Where's there a gate? roared our friend, skating up. 'Gate! there's never a gate within a mile, and that's locked, replied Watchorn sulkily. 'Then here goes! replied Mr.
'What! you are going to give Watchorn a tussle, are you? asked Captain Cutitfat of George Cheek, as the latter began adjusting the fox-toothed riband about his hat. 'I believe you, replied George, with a knowing jerk of his head; adding, 'it won't take much to beat him. 'What! he's a slow 'un, is he? asked Cutitfat, in an undertone. 'Slowest coach I ever saw, growled George.
Luckily, or unluckily perhaps, Mr. Watchorn was at home, and was in the act of shaving as Peter entered. He was a square-built dark-faced, dark-haired, good-looking, ill-looking fellow who cultivated his face on the four-course system of husbandry.
'Oh! want must be their master, Sir 'Arry, replied Watchorn, with a broad grin on his flushed face, for he had been drinking all night, and was half drunk then. 'Can't you manage it? asked Sir Harry, mildly. ''Ow is't possible. Sir 'Arry, asked the huntsman, ''ow is't possible?
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