ME. SPONGE'S SPOETING TOUE. 353 



nodding his head towards the house. "Well," spluttered he, 

 pulling up, and sitting, as he thought, quite straight in the saddle, 

 " we've had the finest day's sport and the most equitahle drink 

 I've enjoyed for many a long day. 'Ord bless us, what a gent 

 that Sir 'Any is ! He's the sort of man that should have money. 

 I'm blowed,it'I were queen, but I'd melt all the great blubber-headed 

 fellows like this 'ere Crowdey down, and make one sich man as 

 Sir 'Any out of the 'ole on 'em. Beer ! they don't know wot 

 beer is there ! nothin' but the werry strongest hale, instead of the 

 puzzon one gets at this awful mean place, that looks like nothin' 

 but the weshin' o' brewers' haprons. ! I 'umbly begs pardon," 

 exclaimed he, dropping from his horse on to his knees on discover- 

 ing that he was addressing Mr. Crowdey — " I thought it was 

 Robins, the mole-ketcher." 



" Thought it was Robins, the mole-catcher," growled Jog ; 

 " what have you to do with (puff ) Robins, the (wheeze) mole- 

 catcher ? " 



Jog boiled over with indignation. At first he thought of kick- 

 ing Leather, a feat that his suppliant position made extremely 

 convenient, if not tempting. Prudence, however, suggested that 

 Leather might have him up for the assault. So he stood puffing 

 and wheezing and eyeing the blearecl-eyed, brandy-nosed old 

 drunkard with, as he thought, a withering look of contempt ; and 

 then, though the man was drunk, and the night was dark, he 

 waddled off, leaving Mr. Leather on his once white breeches' knees. 

 If Jog had had reasonable time, say an hour or an hour and 

 twenty minutes, to improvise it in, he would have said something 

 uncommonly sharp ; as it was he left him with the pertinent 

 inquiry we have recorded — " What have you to do with Robins, 

 the mole-catcher?" We need hardly say that this little incident 

 did not at all ingratiate Mr. Sponge with his host, who re-entered 

 his house in a worse humour than ever. It was insulting a gentle- 

 man on his own ter-ri-tory — bearding an Englishman in his own 

 castle. " Not to be borne (puff)," said Jog. 



It was now nearly five o'clock, Jog's dinner-hour, and still no 

 Mr. Sponge. Mrs. Jog proposed waiting half-an-hour, indeed she 

 had told Susan, the cook, to keep the dinner back a little, to give 

 Mr. Sponge a chance, who could not possibly change his tight 

 hunting things for his evening tights in the short space of time 

 that Jog could drop off his loose flowing garments, wash his hands, 

 and run the comb through his lank, candle-like hair. 



Five o'clock struck, and Jog was just applying his hand to the 

 fat red-and-black worsted bell-pull, when Mrs. Jog announced 

 what she had done. 



" Put off the dinner (wheeze), put off the dinner (puff)," 

 re-peated he, blowing furiously into his clean shirt-frill, which 



