MR. SPONGE'S SPORTING TOUR. 



CHAPTER I. 



OUR HERO. 



It was a murky October day that the hero of our tale, Mr. Sponge, 

 or Soapey Sponge, as his good-natured friends call him, was seen 

 mizzling along Oxford Street, wending his way to the West. Not 

 that there was anything unusual in Sponge being seen in Oxford 

 Street, for when in town his daily perambulations consist of a circuit, 

 commencing from the Bantam Hotel in Bond Street into Piccadilly, 

 through Leicester Square, and so on to Aldridge's, in St. Martin's 

 Lane, thence by Moore's sporting-print-shop, and on through some 

 of those ambiguous and tortuous streets that, appearing to lead all 

 ways at once and none in particular, land the explorer, sooner or 

 later, on the south side of Oxford Street. 



Oxford Street acts to the north part of London what the Strand 

 does to the south ; it is sure to bring one up, sooner or later. A man 

 can hardly get over either of them without knowing it. Well, 

 Soapey having got into Oxford Street, would make his way at a 

 squarey, in-kneed, duck-toed, sort of pace, regulated by the bonnets, 

 the vehicles, and the equestrians he met to criticise ; for of women, 

 vehicles, and horses, he had voted himself a consummate judge. 

 Indeed he had fully established in his own mind that Kiddey Downey 

 and he were the only men in London who really knew anything 

 about horses, and fully impressed with that conviction, he would 

 halt, and stand, and stare, in a way that with any other man would 

 have been considered impertinent. Perhaps it was impertinent in 

 Soapey — we don't mean to say it wasn't — but he had done it so long, 

 and was of so sporting a gait and cut, that he felt himself somewhat 

 privileged. Moreover, the majority of horsemen are so satisfied 

 with the animals they bestride, that they cock up their jibs and ride 

 along with a " find any fault with either me or my horse, if you can." 

 sort of air. 



