Again, a little nearer, were some of the persevering ones--men who still hold on in the forlorn hopes of a check--all dark-coated, and mostly trousered.

Then came the last of the red-coats--Tom Washball, Charley Joyce, and Sam Sloman, riding well in the first flight of second horsemen--his lordship's pad-groom, Mr.Fossick's man in drab with a green collar, Mr.Wake's in blue, also a lad in scarlet and a flat hat, with a second horse for the huntsman.

Drawing still nearer came the ruck--men in red, men in brown, men in livery, a farmer or two in fustian, all mingled together; and a few hundred yards before these, and close upon his lordship, were the _elite_ of the field--five men in scarlet and one in black.

Let us see who they are.

By the powers, Mr.Sponge is first!--Sponge sailing away at his ease, followed by Jack, who is staring at him through his great lamps, longing to launch out at him, but as yet wanting an excuse; Sponge having ridden with judgement--judgement, at least, in everything except in having taken the lead of Jack.