Accordingly, he chuckled and laughed too, though his jaws nearly refused their office, and kindly transferred the blame of the accident from the horse to himself.
[Illustration: MR.

CAINGEY THORNTON DOESN'T 'PUT ON STEAM ENOUGH'] 'He didn't put on steam enough,' he said.
Meanwhile, old Tom, who had gone on with the hounds, having availed himself of a well-known bridge, a little above where Thornton went in, for getting over the brook, and having allowed a sufficient time to elapse for the proper completion of the farce, was now seen rounding the opposite hill, with his hounds clustered about his horse, with his mind conning over one of those imaginary runs that experienced huntsmen know so well how to tell, when there is no one to contradict them.
Having quartered his ground to get at his old friend the bridge again, he just trotted up with well-assumed gaiety as Caingey Thornton spluttered the last piece of green weed out from between his great thick lips.
'Well, Tom!' exclaimed Mr.Waffles, 'what have you done with him ?' 'Killed him, sir,' replied Tom, with a slight touch of his cap, as though 'killing' was a matter of every-day occurrence with them.
'Have you, indeed!' exclaimed Mr.Waffles, adopting the lie with avidity.
'Yes, sir,' said Tom gravely; 'he was nearly beat afore he got to the brook.

Indeed, I thought Vanquisher would have had him in it; but, however, he got through, and the scent failed on the fallow, which gave him a chance; but I held them on to the hedgerow beyond, where they hit it off like wildfire, and they never stopped again till they tumbled him over at the back of Mr.Plummey's farm-buildings, at Shapwick.

I've got his brush,' added Tom, producing a much tattered one from his pocket, 'if you'd like to have it ?' 'Thank you, no--yes--no,' replied Waffles, not wanting to be bothered with it; 'yet stay,' continued he, as his eye caught Mr.Sponge, who was still on foot beside his vanquished friend; 'give it to Mr.What-de-ye-call-'em,' added he, nodding towards our hero.
'Sponge,' observed Tom, in an undertone, giving the brush to his master.
'Mr.Sponge, will you do me the favour to accept the brush ?' asked Mr.
Waffles, advancing with it towards him; adding, 'I am sorry this unlucky bather should have prevented your seeing the end.' Mr.Sponge was a pretty good judge of brushes, and not a bad one of camphire; but if this one had smelt twice as strong as it did--indeed, if it had dropped to pieces in his hand, or the moths had flown up in his face, he would have pocketed it, seeing it paved the way to what he wanted--an introduction.
'I'm very much obliged, I'm sure,' observed he, advancing to take it--'very much obliged, indeed; been an extremely good run, and fast.' 'Very fair--very fair,' observed Mr.Waffles, as though it were nothing in their way; 'seven miles in twenty minutes, I suppose, or something of that sort.' '_One_-and-twenty,' interposed Tom, with a laudable anxiety for accuracy.
'Ah! one-and-twenty,' rejoined Mr.Waffles.

'I thought it would be somewhere thereabouts.