MB. SPONGE'S SPORTING TOUR. 51 



Such, however, was not the case with our watering-place cock, 

 Mr. Sponge. Independently of the absurdity of a man risking his 

 neck for the sake of picking up a bunch of red herrings, Mr. 

 Sponge, having beat everybody, could afford a little humanity, 

 more especially as he rode his horse on sale, and there was now no 

 one left to witness the further prowess of the steed. Accordingly, 

 he availed himself of a heavy, newly-ploughed fallow, upon which 

 he landed as he cleared the brook, for pulling up, and returned 

 just as Mr. Spareneck, assisted by one of the whips, succeeded in 

 landing Caingey on the taking-off* side. Caingey was not a pretty 

 boy at the best of times — none but the most partial parents could 

 think him one— and his clumsy-featured, short, compressed face, 

 and thick, lumpy figure, were anything but improved by a sort 

 of pea-green net-work of water-weeds with which he arose from 

 his bath. He was uncommonly well soaked, and had to be held 

 np by the heels to let the water run out of his boots, pockets and 

 clothes. In this undignified position he was found by Mr. Waffles 

 and such of the field as had ridden the line. 



" Why, Caingey, old boy ! you look like a boiled porpoise with 

 parsley sauce ! " exclaimed Mr. Waffles, pulling up where the 

 unfortunate youth was sputtering and getting emptied like a jug. 

 " Confound it ! " added he, as the water came gurgling out of his 

 mouth, "but you must have drunk the brook dry." 



Caingey would have censured his inhumanity, but knowing the 

 imprudence of quarrelling with his bread and butter, and also 

 aware of the laughable, drowned-rat figure he must then be cutting, 

 he thought it best to laugh, and take his change out of Mr. 

 Waffles another time. According, he chuckled and laughed coo, 

 though his jaws nearly refused their office, and kindly transferred 

 the blame of the accident from the horse to himself. 



" He didn't put on steam enough," he said. 



Meanwhile, old Tom, who had gone on with the hounds, having 

 availed himself of a well-known bridge, a little above where 

 Thornton went in, for getting over the brook, and having allowed 

 a sufficient time to elapse for the proper completion of the farce, 

 was now seen rounding the opposite hill, with his hounds clustered 

 about his horse, with his mind conning over one of those 

 imaginary runs that experienced huntsmen know so well how to 

 tell, when there is no one to contradict them. 



Having quartered his ground to get at his old friend the bridge 

 again, he just trotted up with well-assumed gaiety as Caingey 

 Thornton spluttered the last piece of green weed out from between 

 his great thick lips. 



" Well, Tom ! " exclaimed Mr. Waffles, " what have you done 

 with him ? " 



" Killed him, sir,''' replied Tom, with a slight touch of his cap, 



