If it had not been for Mr.Sponge's shabbiness at the turnpike gate, we really believe he might now have caught them up, for the road to them was down hill all the way, and the impetus of the vehicle would have sent the old screw along.

That delay, however, was fatal.

Before they had gone a quarter of the distance the hounds suddenly struck the scent at a hedge-row, and, with heads up and sterns down, went straight away at a pace that annihilated all hope.

They were out of sight in a minute.

It was clearly a case of kill.
'Well, there's a go!' exclaimed Mr.Sponge, folding his arms, and throwing himself back in the phaeton in disgust.