64 MR. SPONGE'S SFORTING TOUR. 



propping his chin, behind the redoubtable Hercules. He had a 

 bran-new hat on, a velvet-collared blue coat with metal buttons, 

 that anywhere but in the searching glare and contrast of London 

 might have passed for a spic-and-span new one ; a small, striped, 

 step-collared toilanette vest ; and the aforesaid drab trousers, in 

 the right-hand pocket of which his disengaged hand kept fishing 

 up and slipping down an avalanche of silver, which made a plea- 

 sant musical accompaniment to his monetary conversation. On 

 seeing Mr. Waffles, the stranger touched his hat, and appeared to 

 be about to retire, when Mr. Figg, the stud-groom, thus addressed 

 his master : — 



" This be Mr. Buckram, sir, of London, sir ; says he knows our 

 brown 'orse, sir." 



" Ah, indeed," observed Mr. "Waffles, taking a cigar from his 

 mouth ; " knows no good of him, I should think. AVhat part of 

 London do you live in, Mr. Buckram ? " asked he. 



" Why, I doesn't exactly live in London, my lord — that's to say, 

 sir — a little way out of it, you know — have a little hindependence 

 of my own, you understand." 



" Hang it, how should I understand anything of the sort — never 

 set eyes on you before," replied Mr. Waffles. 



The half-crowns now began to descend singly in the pocket, 

 keeping up a protracted jingle, like the notes of a lazy, undecided 

 musical snuff-box. By the time the last had dropped, Mr. Buckram 

 had collected himself sufficiently to resume. 



Taking the ash-plant away from his mouth, with which he had 

 been barricading his lips, he observed, 



" I know'd that oss when Lord Bullfrog had him," nodding his 

 head at our old friend as he spoke. 



" The deuce you did ! " observed Mr. Waffles ; " where was that ? '' 



" In Leicestersheer," replied Mr. Buckram. "I have a haunt as 

 lives at Mount Sorrel ; she has a little hindependence of her own, 

 and I goes down 'casionally to see her — in fact, I believes I'm her 

 hare. Well, I was down there just at the beginnin' of the season, 

 the 'ounds met at Kirby Gate — a mile or two to the south, you 

 know, on the Leicester road — it was the fust day of the season, in 

 fact — and there was a great crowd, and I was one ; and havin' a 

 heye for an oss, I was struck with this one, you understand, bein', 

 as I thought, a 'ticklar nice 'un. Lord Bullfrog's man was a ridin' 

 of him, and he kept him outside the crowd, showin' off his pints, 

 and passin' him backwards and forwards under people's noses, to 

 'tract the notish of the nobs— parsecutin, what I call — and I see'd 

 Mr. Sponge struck — I've known Mr. Sponge many years, and a 

 'ticklar nice gent he is — well, Mr. Sponge pulled hup, and said to 

 the grum, 'Who's o' that oss?' 'My Lor' Bullfrog's, sir,' said 

 the man. ' He's a deuced nice 'un,' observed Mr. Sponge, thinkin', 



