MB. SPONGE'S SPOBTIXG TOUR. 2S3 



Though our friend was a good deal shaken by the fall, the 

 injury to his body was trifling compared to that done to his mind. 

 Being kicked off a horse was an indignity he had never calculated 

 upon. Moreover, it was done in such a masterly manner as clearly 

 showed it could be repeated at pleasure. In addition to which 

 everybody laughs at a man that is kicked off. All these considera- 

 tions rushed to his mind, and made him determine not to brook 

 the mirth of the guests as well as the servants. 



Accordingly he borrowed a hat and started off home, and seeking 

 his guardian, Major Screw, confided to him the position of affairs. 

 The major, who was a man of the world, forthwith commenced a 

 negotiation with Mr. Sponge, who, after a good deal of haggling, 

 and not until the horse had shot the major over his head, too, at 

 length, as a great favour, consented to take fifty pounds to rescind 

 the bargain, accompanying his kindness by telling the major to 

 advise his ward never to dabble in horseflesh after dinner ; a piece of 

 advice that we also very respectfully tender to our juvenile readers. 



And Sponge shortly after sent Spraggon a five pound note as his 

 share of the transaction. 



When Mr. Puffin gton read Messrs. Sponge and Spraggon's 

 account of the run with his hounds, in the Swillingford paper, he 

 was perfectly horrified ; words cannot describe the disgust that he 

 felt. It came upon him quite by surprise, for he expected to be 

 immortalised in some paper or work of general circulation, in 

 which the Lords Loosefish, Sir Toms, and Sir Harrys of former 

 days might recognise the spirited doings of their early friend. He 

 wanted the superiority of his establishment, the excellence of his 

 horses, the stoutness of his hounds, and the polish of his field, 

 proclaimed, with perhaps a quiet cut at the Flat-Hat gentry ; 

 instead of which he had a mixed medley sort of a mess, whose 

 humdrum monotony was only relieved by the absurdities and errors 

 with which it was crammed. At first, Mr. Puffington could not make 

 out what it meant, whether it was a hoax for the purpose of turn- 

 ing run-writing into ridicule, or it had suffered mutilation at the 

 hands of the printer. Calling a good scent an exquisite pcrfiune 

 looked suspicious of a hoax, but then seasonal fox for seasoned fox, 

 scorning to cry for scoring to cry, bay fox for bag fox, grunting 

 for hunting, thrashing for trashing, rests for casts, and other 

 absurdities, looked more like accident than design. 



These are the sort of errors that non-sporting compositors might 

 easily make, one term being as much like English to them as the 

 other, though amazingly different to the eye or the ear of a sports- 

 man. Mr. Puffington was thoroughly disgusted. He was sick of 

 hounds and horses, and Bragg, and hay and corn, and kennels and 

 meal, and saddles and bridles ; and now, this absurdity seemed to 

 cap the whole thing. He was ill-prepared for such a shock. The 



