ME. SPONGE'S SPOUTING TOUR. 301 



trespass before." The top and lop being at length disposed of, 

 Mr. Crowdey, grasping the club-end, struck the other forcibly 

 against the ground, exclaiming, " There ! — there's a (puff) stick ! 

 Who knows what that (puff — wheeze) stick may be worth some 

 day?" 



He then bundled into his carriage and drove on. 



Two more stoppages marked their arrival at the other sticks, 

 which being duly captured and fastened within the straps of the 

 carriage-apron, Mr. Crowdey drove on somewhat more at ease in 

 his mind, at all events somewhat comforted at the thoughts of 

 having increased his wealth. He did not become talkative — 

 indeed that was not his forte, but he puffed into his shirt-frill, and 

 made a few observations, which, if they did not possess much 

 originality, at all events showed that he was not asleep. 



" Those are draining-tiles," said he, after a hearty stare at a 

 cart-load. Then about five minutes after he blew again, and said, 

 " I don't think (puff) that (wheeze) draining without (gasp) 

 manuring will constitute good farming (puff )." 



So he jolted and wheezed, and jerked and jagged the old 

 quadruped's mouth, occasionally hissing between his teeth, and 

 stamping against the bottom of the carriage, when other per- 

 suasive efforts failed to induce it to keep up the semblance of a 

 trot. At last the ill-supported hobble died out into a walk, and 

 Mr. Crowdey, complacently dropping his fat hand on his fat 

 knees, seemed to resign himself to his fate. 



So they crawled along the up-and-downy piece of road below 

 Poplarton plantations, Mr. Jogglebury keeping a sharp eye upon 

 the underwood for sticks. After passing these, they commenced 

 the gradual ascent of Roundington Hill, when a sudden sweep of 

 the road brought them in view of the panorama of the rich Vale 

 of Butterflower. 



" There's a snug-looking box," observed Sponge, as he at length 

 espied a confused jumble of gable-ends and chimney-pots, rising 

 from amidst a clump of Scotch firs and other trees, looking less 

 like a farm-house than anything he had seen. 



" That's my house (puff) ; that's Puddingpote Bower (wheeze)," 

 replied Crowdey, slowly and pompously, adding an " e " to the 

 syllable, to make it sound better, the haddocks, hashed mutton, 

 and all the horrors of impromptu hospitality rushing upon his 

 mind. 



Things began to look worse the nearer he got home. He didn't 

 care to aggravate the old animal into a trot. He again wondered 

 whether Mrs. J. would be pleased at the success of his mission, or 

 angry at the unexpected coming. 



•' Where are the stables ? " asked Sponge, as he scanned the in- 

 and-out irregularities of the building. 



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