18 mr. sponge's sporting tour. 



of the steam, and the disentanglement of the vehicles, by the smallest 

 possible sign in the world, given at the opportune moment, and a 

 steady adhesion to the flags, the 'bus is obliged either to " come to," 

 or lose the fare, and he steps quietly in, and squeezes along to the far 

 end, as though intent on going the whole hog of the journey. 



Away they rumble up the Edgeware Road ; the gradual emer- 

 gence from the brick and mortar of London being marked as well by 

 the telling out of passengers as' by the increasing distances between 

 the houses. First, it is all close huddle with both. Austere iron 

 railings guard the subterranean kitchen areas, and austere looks indi- 

 cate a desire on the part of the passengers to guard their own 

 pockets ; gradually little gardens usurp the places of the cramped 

 areas, and, with their humanising appearance, softer looks assume the 

 place of frowning <2??fi-swell-mob ones. 



Presently a glimpse of green country or of distant hills may be 

 caught between the wider spaces of the houses, and frequent settings 

 down increase the space between the passengers ; gradually conserva- 

 tories appear, and conversation strikes up ; then come the exclusive- 

 ness of villas, some detached and others running out at last into real 

 pure green fields studded with trees and picturesque pot-houses, before 

 one of which latter a sudden wheel round and a jerk announces the 

 journey done. The last passenger (if there is one) is then uncere- 

 moniously turned loose upon the country. 



Our readers will have the kindness to suppose our hero, Mr. 

 Sponge, shot out of an omnibus at .the sign of the Cat and Com- 

 passes, in the full rurality of grass country, sprinkled with fallows 

 and turnip-fields. We should state that this unwonted journey was a 

 desire to pay a visit to Mr. Benjamin Buckram, the horse-dealer's 

 farm at Scampley, distant some mile and a half from where he was 

 set down, a space that he now purposed travelling on foot. 



Mr. Benjamin Buckram was a small horse-dealer, — small, at least, 

 when he was buying, though great when he was selling. It would do 

 a youngster good to see Ben filling the two capacities. He dealt in 

 second hand, that is to say, past mark of mouth horses ; but on the 

 present occasion Mr. Sponge sought his services in the capacity of a 

 letter rather than a seller of horses. Mr. Sponge wanted to job a 

 couple of plausible-looking horses, with the option of buying them, 

 provided lie (Mr. Sponge) could sell them for more than he would 

 have to give Mr. Buckram, exclusive of the hire. Mr. Buckram's 

 job price, we should say, was as near twelve pounds a month, con- 

 taining twenty-eight days, as he could screw, the hirer, of course, 

 keeping the animals. 



Scampley is one of those pretty little suburban farms, peculiar to 

 the north and northwest side of London — farms varying from fifty to 

 a hundred acres of well-manured, gravelly soil ; each farm with its 

 picturesque little buildings, consisting of small, honey-suckled, rose- 



