198 MB. SFQNGE'S SPORTING TOUR. 



Puffington snobs, or Flat Hat swells, or Puffing-ton Swells, or 

 Plat Hat snobs. It was our old friend Sponge ; Monsieur Tonson 

 again ! Having arrived late, he had posted himself, unseen, by 

 the cover side, and the fox had broke close to him. Unfortunately,, 

 be had beaded him back, and a pretty kettle of fish was the result. 

 Not only had he headed him back, but the resolute chestnut, 

 having taken it into his head to run away, had snatched the bit 

 between his teeth, and carried him to the far side of a field ere 

 Sponge managed to manoeuvre him round on a very liberal semi- 

 circle, and face the now flying sportsmen, who came hurrying on 

 through the mist like a charge of yeomanry after a salute. All was 

 excitement, hurry-scurry, and horse-hugging, with the usual 

 spurring, elbowing, and exertion to get into places ; Mr. Fossick 

 considering he had as much right to be before Mr. Fylc, as Mr. 

 Pyle had to be before old Capon. 



It apparently being all the same to the chestnut which way he 

 went so long as he had his run, he now bore Sponge back as 

 quickly as he had carried him away, and with yawning mouth, and 

 head in tbe air, he dashed right at the coming horsemen, charging 

 Lord Scamperdale full tilt as he was in the act of returning his 

 horn to its case. Great was the collision ! His lordship flew one 

 way, his horse another, his hat a third, his whip a fourth, his 

 spectacles a fifth ; in fact, he was scattered alt over. In an 

 instant he lay in the centre of a circle, kicking on his back like a 

 lively turtle. 



" Oh ! I'm kilt !" he roared, striking out as if he was swimming, 

 or rather floating. " I'm kilt ! " he repeated. He's broken my 

 back, — he's broken my legs, — he's broken my ribs, — he's broken 

 my collar-bone, — he's knocked my right eye into the heel of my 

 left boot. Oh ! will nobody catch him and kill him ? Will 

 nobody do for him ? Will you see an English nobleman knocked 

 about like a nine-pin ? " added his lordship, scrambling up to go 

 in pursuit of Mr. Sponge himself, exclaiming, as he stood shaking 

 his fist at him, "Rot ye, Sir ! hangings too good for ye! you should 

 be condemned to hunt in Berwickshire the rest of your life! " 



