"Ask Mamma"; or, The Richest Commoner In England. Robert Smith Surtees

up!” cries he, with an obligato accompaniment of the spur rowels, which the honest beast acknowledges by a clambering flounder up the bank, making the descent on his head on the field side that he nearly executed before. The Hatter’s legs perform a sort of wands of a mill evolution.

      “Not hurt, I hope!” holloas the Earl, who with Miss de Glancey now lands a little above, and seeing the Hatter rise and shake himself he canters on, giving Miss de Glancey a touch on the elbow, and saying with a knowing look, “That’s capital! get rid of him, leggings and all!”

      His lordship having now seen the last of his tormentors, has time to look about him a little.

      “Been a monstrous fine run,” observes he to the lady, as they canter together behind the pace-slackening pack.

      “Monstrous,” replies the lady, who sees no fun in it at all.

      “How long has it been?” asks his lordship of Swan, who now shows to the front as a whip-aspiring huntsman is wont to do.

      “An hour all but five minutes, my lord,” replies the magnifier, looking at his watch. “No—no—an hour ‘zactly, my lord,” adds he, trotting on—restoring his watch to his fob as he goes.

      “An hour best pace with but one slight check—can’t have come less than twelve miles,” observes his lordship, thinking it over.

      “Indeed,” replied Miss de Glancey, wishing it was done.

      “Grand sport fox-hunting, isn’t it?” asked his lordship, edging close up to her.

      “Charming!” replied Miss de Glancey, feeling her failing frizette.

      The effervescence of the thing is now about over, and the hounds are reduced to a very plodding pains-taking pace. The day has changed for the worse, and heavy clouds are gathering overhead. Still there is a good holding scent, and as the old saying is, a fox so pressed must stop at last, the few remaining sportsmen begin speculating on his probable destination, one backing him for Cauldwell rocks, another for Fulford woods, a third for the Hawkhurst Hills.

      “ ‘Awk’urst ‘ills for a sovereign!” now cries Dicky, hustling his horse, as, having steered the nearly mute pack along Sandy-well banks, Challenger and Sparkler strike a scent on the track leading up to Sorryfold Moor, and go away at an improving pace.

      “ ‘Awk’urst ‘ills for a fi’-pun note!” adds he, as the rest of the pack score to cry.

      “Going to have rine!” now observes he, as a heavy drop beats upon his up-turned nose. At the same instant a duplicate drop falls upon Miss de Glancey’s fair cheek, causing her to wish herself anywhere but where she was.

      Another, and another, and another, follow in quick succession, while the dark, dreary moor offers nothing but the inhospitable freedom of space. The cold wind cuts through her, making her shudder for the result. “He’s for the hills!” exclaims Gameboy Green, still struggling on with a somewhat worse-for-wear looking steed.

      “He’s for the hills!” repeats he, pointing to a frowning line in the misty distance.

      At the same instant his horse puts his foot in a stone-hole, and Gameboy and he measure their lengths on the moor.

      “That comes of star-gazing,” observed his lordship, turning his coat-collar up about his ears. “That comes of star-gazing,” repeats he, eyeing the loose horse scampering the wrong way.

      “We’ll see no more of him,” observed Miss de Glancey, wishing she was as well out of it as Green.

      “Not likely, I think,” replied his lordship, seeing the evasive rush the horse gave, as Speed, who was coming up with some tail hounds, tried to catch him.

      The heath-brushing fox leaves a scent that fills the painfully still atmosphere with the melody of the hounds, mingled with the co-beck—co-beck—co-beck of the startled grouse. There is a solemn calm that portends a coming storm. To Miss de Clancey, for whom the music of the hounds has no charms, and the fast-gathering clouds have great danger, the situation is peculiarly distressing. She would stop if she durst, but on the middle of a dreary moor how dare she.

      An ominous gusty wind, followed by a vivid flash of lightning and a piercing scream from Miss de Glancey, now startled the Earl’s meditations.

      “Lightning!” exclaimed his lordship, turning short round to her assistance. “Lightning in the month of November—never heard of such a thing!”

      But ere his lordship gets to Miss de Glancey’s horse, a most terrific clap of thunder burst right over head, shaking the earth to the very centre, silencing the startled hounds, and satisfying his lordship that it was lightning.

      Another flash, more vivid if possible than the first, followed by another pealing crash of thunder, more terrific than before, calls all hands to a hurried council of war on the subject of shelter.

      “We must make for the Punch-bowl at Rockbeer,” exclaims General Boggledike, flourishing his horn in an ambiguous sort of way, for he wasn’t quite sure he could find it.

      “You know the Punch-bowl at Rockbeer!” shouts he to Harry Swan, anxious to have some one on whom to lay the blame if he went wrong.

      “I know it when I’m there,” replied Swan, who didn’t consider it part of his duty to make imaginary runs to ground for his lordship.

      “Know it when you’re there, man,” retorted Dicky in disgust; “why any————” the remainder of his sentence being lost in a tremendously illuminating flash of lightning, followed by a long cannonading, reverberating roll of thunder.

      Poor Miss de Glancey was ready to sink into the earth.