How astonished he was to find the previous day's run staring him in the face, headed 'SPLENDID RUN WITH MR.

PUFFINGTON'S HOUNDS,' in the imposing type here displayed.

'Well, that's quick work, however,' said he, casting his eyes up to the ceiling in astonishment, and thinking how unlike it was the Swillingford papers, which were always a week, but generally a fortnight behindhand with information.

'Splendid run with Mr.Puffington's hounds,' read he again, wondering who had done it: Bardolph, the innkeeper; Allsop, the cabinet-maker; Tuggins, the doctor, were all out; so was Weatherhog, the butcher.

Which of them could it be?
Grimes, the editor, wasn't there; indeed, he couldn't ride, and the country was not adapted for a gig.
He then began to read it, and the further he got the more he was disgusted.
At last, when he came to the 'seasonal fox, which some thought was a bay one,' his indignation knew no bounds, and crumpling the paper up in a heap, he threw it from him in disgust.