Meanwhile Sponge sat enjoying the following observations, which a westerly wind wafted into his ear.
'Oh, d—n me! that man in the lane's headed the fox,' puffed one.
'Who is it?' gasped another.
'Tom Washball!' exclaimed a third.
'Heads more foxes than any man in the country,' puffed a fourth.
'Always nicking and skirting,' exclaimed a fifth.
'Never comes to the meet,' added a sixth.
'Come on a cow to-day,' observed another.
'Always chopping and changing,' added another; 'he'll come on a giraffe next.'
Having commenced his career with the 'F.H.H.' so inauspiciously and yet escaped detection, Mr. Sponge thought of letting Tom Washball enjoy the honours of his faux-pas, and of sneaking quietly home as soon as the hounds hit off the scent; but unluckily, just as they were crossing the lane, what should heave in sight, cantering along at his leisure, but the redoubtable Multum in Parvo, who, having got rid of old Leather by bumping and thumping his leg against a gate-post, was enjoying a line of his own.