At the end of eighteen minutes more the hounds ran into their fox in the little green valley below Mountnessing Wood, and Mr. Bragg had him stretched on the green with the pack baying about him, and the horses of the field-riders getting led about by the country people, while the riders stood glorying in the splendour of the thing. All had a direct interest in making it out as good as possible, and Mr. Bragg was quite ready to appropriate as much praise as ever they liked to give.

"Ord dim him,' said he, turning up the fox's grim head with his foot, 'but Mr. Bragg's an awkward customer for gen'lemen of your description.'

'You hunted him well!' exclaimed Charley Slapp, who was trumpeter general of the establishment.

'Oh, sir,' replied Bragg, with a smirk and a condescending bow, 'if Richard Bragg can't kill foxes, I don't know who can.'

Just then 'Puffington and Co.' hove in sight up the valley, their faces beaming with delight as the tableau before them told the tale. They hastened to the spot.

'How many brace is that?' asked Puffington, with the most matter-of-course air, as he trotted up, and reined in his horse outside the circle.

'Seventeen brace, your grace, I mean to say my lord, that's to say _sur_,'

replied Bragg, with a strong emphasis on the _sur_, as if to say, 'I'm not used to you sn.o.bs of commoners.'

'Seventeen brace!' sneered Jack Spraggon to Sponge, adding, in a whisper, 'More like _seven_ foxes.'

'And how many run to ground?' asked Puffington, alighting.

'Four brace,' replied Bragg, stooping to cut off the brush.

We were wrong in saying that Bragg only allowed Puff the privilege of nodding his head to say when he might throw off. He let him lead the 'lie gallop' in the kill department.

Mr. Puffington then presented Mr. Sponge with the brush, and the usual solemnities being observed, the sherry flasks were produced and drained, the biscuits munched, and, amidst the smoke of cigars, the ring broke up in great good-will.

CHAPTER x.x.xIX

Writing A Run

[Ill.u.s.tration: letter T]

The first fumes of excitement over, after a run with a kill, the field begin to take things more coolly and veraciously, and ere long some of them begin to pick holes in the affair. The men of the hunt run it up, while those of the next hunt run it down. Added to this there are generally some cavilling, captious fellows in every field who extol a run to the master's face, and abuse it behind his back. So it was on the present occasion. The men of the hunt--Charley Slapp, Lumpleg, Guano, Crane, Washball, and others--lauded and magnified it into something magnificent; while Fossick, Fyle, Wake, Blossomnose, and others of the 'Flat Hat Hunt,' p.r.o.nounced it a niceish thing--a pretty burst; and Mr. Vosper, who had hunted for five-and-twenty seasons without ever subscribing one farthing to hounds, always declaring that each season was 'his last,' or that he was going to confine himself entirely to some other pack, said it was nothing to make a row about, that he had seen fifty better things with the Tinglebury harriers, and never a word said.

'Well,' said Sponge to Spraggon, between the whiffs of a cigar, as they rode together; 'it wasn't so bad, was it?'

'Bad!--no,' squinted Jack, 'devilish good--for Puff, at least,' adding, 'I question he's had a better this season.'

'Well, we are in luck,' observed Tom Washball, riding up and joining them;'

we are in luck to have a satisfactory thing with you great connoisseurs out.'

'A pretty thing enough,' replied Jack, 'pretty thing enough.'

'Oh, I don't mean to say it's equal to many we've had this season,' replied Washball; 'nothing like the Boughton Hill day, nor yet the Hembury Forest one; but still, considering the meet and the state of the country--'

'Hout! the country's good enough,' growled Jack, who hated Washball; adding, 'a good fox makes any country good'; with which observation he sidled up to Sponge, leaving Washball in the middle of the road.

'That reminds me,' said Jack, _sotto voce_ to Sponge, 'that the crittur wants his run puffed, and he thinks you can do it.'

'Me!' exclaimed Sponge, 'what's put that in his head?'

'Why, you see,' exclaimed Jack, 'the first time you came out with our hounds at Dundleton Tower, you'll remember--or rather, the first time we saw you, when your horse ran away with you--somebody, Fyle, I think it was, said you were a literary cove; and Puff, catchin' at the idea, has never been able to get rid of it since: and the fact is, he'd like to be flattered--he'd be uncommonly pleased if you were to "soft sawder" him handsomely.'

'_Me!_' exclaimed Sponge; 'bless your heart, man, I can't write anything--nothing fit to print, at least.'

'Hout, fiddle!' retorted Spraggon, 'you can write as well as any other man; see what lots of fellows write, and n.o.body ever finds fault.'

'But the spellin' bothers one,' replied Sponge, with a shake of his elbow and body, as if the idea was quite out of the question.

'Hang the spellin',' muttered Jack, 'one can always borrow a dictionary; or let the man of the paper--the editor, as they call him--smooth out the spellin'. You say at the end of your letter, that your hands are cold, or your hand aches with holdin' a pullin' horse, and you'll thank him to correct any inadvertencies--you needn't call them errors, you know.'

'But where's the use of it?' exclaimed Sponge; 'it'll do us no good, you know, praisin' Puff's pack, or himself, or anything about him.'

'That's just the point,' said Jack, 'that's just the point. I can make it answer both our purposes,' said he, with a nudge of the elbow, and an inside-out squint of his eyes.

'Oh, that's another matter,' replied our friend; 'if we can turn the thing to account, well and good--I'm your man for a shy.'

'We _can_ turn it to account,' rejoined Jack; 'we _can_ turn it to account--at least _I_ can; but then you must do it. He wouldn't take it as any compliment from me. It's the stranger that sees all things in their true lights. D'ye understand?' asked he eagerly.

'I twig,' replied Sponge.

'You write the account,' continued Jack, 'and I'll manage the rest.'

'You must help me,' observed Sponge.

'Certainly,' replied Jack; 'we'll do it together, and go halves in the plunder.'

'Humph,' mused Sponge: 'halves,' said he to himself. 'And what will you give me for my half?' asked he.

'Give you!' exclaimed Jack, brightening up. 'Give you! Let me see,'

continued he, pretending to consider--'Puff's rich--Puff's a liberal fellow--Puff's a conceited beggar--mix it strong,' said Jack, 'and I'll give you ten pounds.'

'Make it twelve,' replied Sponge, after a pause.

If Jack had said twelve. Sponge would have asked fourteen.

'Couldn't,' said Jack, with a shake of the head; 'it really isn't with (worth) the money.'

The two then rode on in silence for some little distance.

'I'll tell you what I'll do,' said Jack, spurring his horse, and trotting up the s.p.a.ce that the other had now shot ahead. 'I'll split the difference with you!'

'Well, give me the sov.,' said Sponge, holding out his hand for earnest.

'Why, I haven't a sov. upon me,' replied Jack; 'but, honour bright, I'll do what I say.'