MB. SPONGE'S SPOETIXG TOUR. 45 



" Shouldn't wonder," replied Whitfield ; "perhaps he'll have the 

 conceit taken out of him before night." 



" Well, I hope you'll be in time, old boy ! " exclaimed Mr. Waffles 

 to himself, as looking down from his bed-room window, he espied 

 Mr. Sponge passing up the street on his way to cover. Mr. Waffles 

 was just out of bed, and had yet to dress and breakfast. 



One man in scarlet sets all the rest on the fidget, and without 

 troubling to lay " that or that " together, they desert their break- 

 fasts, hurry to the stables, get out their horses, and rattle away, 

 lest their watches should be wrong, or some arrangement made that 

 they are ignorant of. The hounds, too, were on, as was seen, as 

 well by their footmarks, as by the bob, bob, bobbing of sundry 

 black caps above the hedges, on the Borrowdon-road, as the hunts- 

 man and whips proceeded at that pleasant post-boy trot, that has 

 roused the wrath of so many riders against horses that they could 

 not get to keep in time. 



Now look at old Tom, cocked jauntily on the spicy bay, and see 

 what a different Tom he is to what he was last night. Instead of 

 a battered, limping, shabby-looking, little old man, he is all alive, 

 and rises to the action of his horse, as though they were all one. 

 A fringe of grey hair protrudes beneath his smart velvet cap, 

 which sets off a weather-beaten, but keen and expressive face, lit 

 up with little piercing black eyes. See how chirpy and cheery he 

 is ; how his right arm keeps rising and falling with his whip, 

 beating responsive to the horse's action with the butt-end against 

 his thigh. His new scarlet coat imparts a healthy hue to his face, 

 and good boots and breeches hide the imperfections of his bad 

 legs. His hounds seem to partake of the old man's gaiety, and 

 gather round his horse, or frolic forward on the grassy sidings of 

 the road, till, getting almost out of earshot, a single " yooi doit! — ■ 

 Arrogant!" — or "here again, Brusher !"" brings them cheerfully 

 back to whine and look in the old man's face for applause. Nor 

 is he chary of his praise. "G — oood bctch ! — Arrogant ! — g — 000& 

 betch ! " says he, leaning over his horse's shoulder towards her, 

 and jerking his hand to induce her to proceed forward again. So 

 the old man trots gaily on, now making of his horse, now coaxing 

 a hound, now talking to a " whip," now touching or taking off his 

 cap as he passes a sportsman, according to the estimation in which 

 he holds him. 



As the hounds reach Whirleypool Windmill, there is a grand 

 rush of pedestrians to meet them. First comes a velveteen- 

 jacketed, leather-legginged keeper, with whom Tom (albeit suspi- 

 cious of his honesty) thinks it prudent to shake hands ; the miller 

 and he, too, greet ; and forthwith a black bottle with a single 

 glass make their appearance, and pass current with the company. 

 Then the earth-stopper draws nigh, and, resting a hand on Tom's 



