MB. SPONGE'S SPOUTING TOUR. 437 



one that would be more likely to do damage to his farm than this 

 steeple-chase one. Nor was the assemblage confined to the people 

 of the country, for the Granddiddle Junction, by its connexion with 

 the great network of railways, enabled all patrons of this truly 

 national sport to sweep down upon the spot like flocks of wolves ; 

 and train after train disgorged a generous mixture of sharps and 

 flats, commingling with coatless, baggy-breeched vagabonds, the 

 emissaries most likely of the Peeping Toms and Infallible Joes, 

 if not the worthies themselves. 



" Dear, but it's a noble sight ! " exclaimed Viney to Watchorn 

 as they sat on their horses, below a rickety green-baize covered 

 scaffold, labelled, " Grand Stand ; admission, Two-and-sixpence," 

 raised against Scourgefield's stack-yard wall, eyeing the population 

 pouring in from all parts. " Dear, but it's a noble sight ! " said 

 he, shading the sun from his eyes,, and endeavouring to identify 

 the different vehicles in the distance. " Yonder's the 'bus comin' 

 again." said he, looking towards the station, " loaded like a 

 market-gardener's turnip-waggon. That'll pay,''' added he, with 

 a knowing leer at the landlord of the Hen Angel, Newington 

 Butts. "And who have we here, with the four horses and sky- 

 blue flunkies ? Jawleyford, as I live ! " added he, answering 

 himself ; adding, " The beggar had better pay me what he owes." 



How great Mr. Viney was ! Some people, who have never had 

 anything to do with horses, think it incumbent upon them, when 

 they have, to sport top-boots, and accordingly, for the first time 

 in his life, Yiney appears in a pair of remarkably hard, tight, 

 country-made boots, above which are a pair of baggy, white cords, 

 with the dirty finger-marks of the tailor still upon them. He 

 sports a single-breasted green cutaway coat, with basket-buttons r 

 a black satin roll-collared waistcoat, and a new white silk hat., that 

 shines in the bright sun like a fish-kettle. His blue-striped kerchief 

 is secured by a butterfly brooch. Who ever saw an innkeeper that 

 could resist a brooch ? 



He is riding a miserable rat of a badly-clipped, mouse-coloured 

 pony, that looks like a velocipede under him. 



His companion Mr. Watchorn, is very great, and hardly condes- 

 cends to know the country people who claim his acquaintance as a 

 huntsman. He is a Hotel Keeper — master of the Hen Angel, 

 Newington Butts. Enoch Wriggle stands beside them, dressed 

 in the imposing style of a cockney sportsman. He has been puffing 

 " Sir Danapalus (the Bart.)" in public, and taking all the odds he 

 can get against him in private. Watchorn knows that it is easier 

 to make a horse lose than win. The restless-looking, lynx-eyed 

 caitiff, in the dirty green shawl, with his hands stuffed into the front 

 pockets of the brown tarriar coat, is their jockey, the renowned 

 Captain Hangallows ; he answers to the name of Sam Slick in 



