MR. sponge's SPORTING TOUR. 207 



CHAPTER XXXIII. 



A SWELL HUNTSMAN. 



One evening the rattle of Puff's pole-chains, brought, in addition to 

 the usual rush of shirt-sleeved helpers, an extremely smart, dapper 

 little man, who might be either a jockey or a gentleman, or both, or 

 neither. He was a clean-shaved, close-trimmed, spruce little fellow ; 

 remarkably natty about the legs — indeed,, all over. His close- 

 napped hat was carefully brushed, and what little hair appeared be- 

 low its slightly curved brim was of the pepper and-salt-mixture of — 

 say, fifty-years. His face, though somewhat wrinkled and weather- 

 beaten, was bright and healthy ; and there was a twinkle about his 

 little grey eyes that spoke of quickness and watchful observation. 

 Altogether, he was a very quick-looking little man — a sort of man 

 that would know what you were going to say before you had well 

 broke ground. He wore no gills ; and his neatly-tied starcher had a 

 white ground with small black spots, about the size of currants. The 

 slight interregnum betweem it and his step-collared striped vest 

 (blue stripe on a canary-coloured ground) showed three golden foxes' 

 heads, acting as studs to his well-washed, neatly-plaited shirt ; while 

 a sort of careless turn back of the right cuff showed similar orna- 

 ments at his wrists. His single-breasted, cut-away coat was Oxford 

 mixture, with a thin cord binding, and very natty light kerseymere 

 mother-cf'-pearl buttoned breeches, met a pair of bright, beautifully- 

 fitting, rose-tinted tops, that wrinkled most elegantly down to the 

 Jersey-patterned spur. He was a remarkably well got-up little man, 

 and looked the horseman all over. 



As he emerged from the stable, where he had been mastering the 

 ins and outs of the establishment, learning what was allowed and 

 what was not, what had not been found fault with and, therefore, 

 might "be presumed upon, and so on, he carried the smart dogskin 

 leather glove of one hand in the other, while the fox's head of a mas- 

 sive silver-mounted jockey-whip peered from under his arm. On a 

 ring round the fox's neck was the following inscription : — " From 

 Jack Bragg to his cousin Dick." 



Mr. Puffington having drawn up his mail-phaeton, and thrown 

 the ribbons to the active grooms at the horses' heads in the true 

 coaching style, proceeded to descend from his throne, and had reached 

 the ground ere he was aware of the presence of a stranger. Seeing 

 him then, he made the sort of half obeisance of a man that does not 

 know whether he is addressing a gentleman or a servant, or, may 



