"Who-hoop! that's a queer way of beginning a chapter, Mr. Author!"

"So it is, Mr. Reader, but you'll have a good many more of them before you are done."

Our last left the Stout-as-Steel hounds in the act of running into their fox on the far hill-side, the field viewing the feat across the water. Not a soul appeared near them, but ere the "worry" was complete, old Enoch dropped as it were from the clouds, and dived into the middle of the pack. To be sure the latter part of his descent was visible enough in the shape of a red thing sitting as it were on the back of a rabbit, sliding on its hind quarters down the mountain.

Having reached the pack, up went the fox, and baying leaped the hounds, the group forming a lively speck on the wide expanse of mountain scenery.

Few people are willing to admit that a fox has been killed, unless they see him—at all events seeing him seems to add considerably to their satisfaction; and away Captain Cashbox cut, followed by the field for ocular demonstration. Through the water splashed the mules, over great boulder stones, enough to throw down an elephant, across

the rushy, rugged bottom, and now up the steep hill-side-clatter, clatter, clatter, they went among the loose rumbling stones-blob, blob, blob, they floundered on the unsound ground beyond.

66

Who-hoop!" each man exclaimed, on pulling up within "ware-horse" distance of the huge fox, now hanging his head before the pack in all the terrors of grim death. "Who-hoop!" yelled little Cashbox, putting his finger in his ear, as though he were afraid of deafening himself. "WHO-HOOP!" screamed he, still louder, throwing himself off his mule and rushing up to Tiphill for the fox. If the captain had gone on all-fours, and hunted and killed the fox himself, he could not have taken greater credit to himself for the feat. The hounds might kill him, but who brought the hounds? Captain Cashbox-and therefore to Captain Cashbox belonged the honour and glory of the day.

up

Having got the fox from Enoch, he held him for some seconds above his head, in the manner of a "Poses Plastique" master, until his little arms tiring, he threw him flop on the ground.

"He's a terrible length from the snout to the stern," observed the nondescript little man, stooping and measuring the fox with his whip.

Without announcing the longitude, he proceeded to divest him of his appendages.

Off went the head.

"There's the head of a traitor!" exclaimed the Captain, holding it up.

Then came the pads, and, lastly, that noblest trophy of them all-the brush!

"Allow me, sir," said he, strutting out in the most grotesque, puss-in-boots style, towards where Tom Scott stood, "to present you, sir, with the brush of one of our mountain breed-sir, a real 'stunner,' sir, as my friend, Joe Banks, would say, sir. Sir, I'm extremely glad, sir, to see you out with my hounds, sir; hope, sir, I shall often have the pleasure, sir-shall be most happy, sir, to present you with our button, sir."

Flattered by so much attention, especially from a man that he did not expect any from, Tom incontinently replied, on receiving the brush, that he would be most proud to receive the button, and wear it wherever he went.

Scarcely were the words out of his mouth, than the Captain, having dived into the trunk of his fisherman's boots, produced a packet, from which, having blown the silver paper, he exhibited a complete set of large buttons, to which having added a pinch of small ones from his seal-skin waistcoat pocket, he handed the whole over to Scott, observing, that "he might send him a Post Office order for the four guineas when he got home, and that he would be most happy to have his name down as a subscriber also."

"He's done you," whispered a gentleman, with a smile and a wink, as the little varmint waddled back to his mule, and proceeded to what he would

1