;;80 MB. SPONGE'S SPOBTING TOUR. 



Four days had now elapsed since Mr. Sponge penned his overture 

 to Sir Harry, and each succeeding day satisfied him more of the 

 utter impossibility of holding on much longer in his then billet at 

 Puddingpote Bower. Not only was Jog coarse and incessant in his 

 hints to him to be off, but Jawleyford-like he had lowered the 

 standard of entertainment so greatly, that if it hadn't been that 

 Mr. Sponge had his servant and horses kept also, he might as well 

 have been living at his own expense. The company lights were all 

 extinguished ; great, strong-smelling, cauliflower-headed moulds, 

 that were always wanting snuffing, usurped the place of Belmont 

 wax ; napkins were withdrawn ; second-hand table-cloths intro- 

 duced ; marsala did duty for sherry ; and the stick-jaw pudding 

 assumed a consistency that was almost incompatible with articula- 

 tion. 



In the course of this time Sponge wrote to Puffington, saying if 

 he was better he would return and finish his visit ; but the 

 wary Puff sent a messenger off express with a note, lamenting that 

 he was ordered to Handley Cross for his health, but " pop'lar man " 

 like, hoping that the pleasure of Sponge's company was only 

 deferred for another season. Jawleyford, even Sponge thought 

 hopeless ; and, altogether, he was very much perplexed. He had 

 made a little money, certainly, with his horses ; but a permanent 

 investment of his elegant person, such as he had long been on the 

 look out for, seemed as far off as ever. On the afternoon of the 

 fifth day, as he was taking a solitary stroll about the country, 

 having about made up his mind to be off to town, just as he was 

 crossing Jog's buttercup meadow on his way to the stable, a rapid 

 tang I bang ! caused him to start, and, looking over the hedge, he 

 saw a brawny-looking sportsman in brown reloading his gun, with 

 a brace of liver and white setters crouching like statues in the 

 stubble. 



" Seek dead ! " presently said the shooter, with a slight wave of 

 his hand ; and in an instant each dog was picking up his bird. 



" I'll have a word with you," said Sponge, " on and off-ing " the 

 hedge, his beat causing the shooter to start and look as if inclined 

 for a run ; second thoughts said Sponge was too near, and he'd 

 better brave it. 



" "What sport ? " asked Sponge, striding towards him. 



" Oh, pretty middling," replied the shooter, a great red-headed, 

 freckley-faced fellow, with backward-lying whiskers, crowned in a 

 drab rustic. "Oh, pretty middling," repeated he, not knowing 

 whether to act on the friendly or defensive. 



" Fine day ! " said Sponge, eyeing his fox-maskey whiskers and 

 stout, muscular frame. 



" It is," replied the shooter ; adding, " Just followed my birds 

 over the boundary. No 'fence, I s'pose — no 'fence." 





