MB. SPONGE'S SPOBTING TOUR. 53 



man with another so much as skill and boldness in the field. It 

 was by that means, indeed, that he had established himself in Mr. 

 Waffles' good graces — an ingratiation that had been pretty service- 

 able to him, both in the way of meat, drink, mounting, and 

 money. Had Mr. Sponge been, like himself, a needy, penniless 

 adventurer, Caingey would have tried to have kept him out by 

 some of those plausible, admonitory hints, that poverty makes men 

 so obnoxious to ; but in the case of a rich, flourishing individual, 

 with such an astonishing stud as Leather made him out to have, 

 it was clearly Caingey's policy to knock under and be subservient 

 to Mr. Sponge also. Caingey, we should observe, was a bold, 

 reckless rider, never seeming to care for his neck, but he was no 

 match for Mr. Sponge, who had both skill and courage. 



Caingey being at length cleansed from his weeds, wiped from his 

 mud, and made as comfortable as possible under the circumstances, 

 was now hoisted on to the renowned steeple-chase horse again, 

 who had scrambled out of the brook on the taking-off side, and, 

 after meandering the banks for a certain distance, had been caught 

 by the bridle in the branch of a willow — Caingey, we say, being 

 again mounted, Mr. Sponge also, without hindrance from the 

 resolute brown horse, the first whip put himself a little in advance, 

 while old Tom followed with the hounds, and the second whip 

 mingled with the now increasing field, it being generally under- 

 stood (by the uninitiated, at least) that hounds have no business 

 to go home so long as any gentleman is inclined for a scurrey, no 

 matter whether he has joined early or late. Mr. Waffles, on the 

 contrary, was very easily satisfied, and never took the shine off a 

 run with a kill by risking a subsequent defeat. Old Tom, though 

 keen when others were keen, was not indifferent to his comforts, 

 and soon came into the way of thinking that it was just as well to 

 get home to his mutton-chops at two or three o'clock, as to 

 be groping his way about bottomless bye-roads on dark winter 

 nights. 



As he retraced his steps homeward, and overtook the scattered 

 field of the morning, his talent for invention, or rather stretching, 

 was again called into requisition. 



" What have you done with him, Tom ? " asked Major Bouncer, 

 eagerly bringing his sturdy collar-marked cob alongside of our 

 huntsman. 



" Killed him, sir," replied Tom, with the slightest possible touch 

 of the cap. (Bouncer was no tip.) 



" Indeed ! " exclaimed Bouncer, gaily, with that sort of sham- 

 satisfaction that most people express about things that can't 

 concern them in the least. " Indeed ! I'm deuced glad of that ! 

 Where did you kill him ? " 



"At the back of Mr. Plummey's farm-buildings, at Shapwick,'' 



