me. sponge's sporting tour. 269 



too in the country, where men sit, talk, talk, talking, sip, sip, sipping, and 

 " just another bottle-ing ; " more, we believe, from want of something 

 else to do than from any natural inclination to exceed ; the exertion, 

 we say, of such parties had completely unstrung our fat friend, and 

 ill-prepared his nerves for such a shock. Being a great man for his 

 little comforts, he always breakfasted in his dressing-room, which he 

 had fitted up in the most luxurious style, and where he had his news- 

 papers (most carefully ironed out) laid with his letters against he 

 came in. It was late on the morning following our last chapter, ere 

 he thought he had got rid of as much of his winy headache as fitful sleep 

 would carry off, and enveloped himself in a blue and yellow-flowered 

 silk dressing-gown and Turkish slippers. He looked at his letters, 

 and knowing their outsides, left them for future perusal ; and sousing 

 himself into the depths of a many-cushioned easy chair, pro- 

 ceeded to spell his Morning Post — Tattersall's advertisements — 

 " Grosjean's Paletots "— " Mr. Albert Smith"—" Coals, best Stew- 

 art Hetton or Lambton's " — " Police intelligence " — and such other 

 light reading as does not require any great effort to connect or com- 

 prehend. 



Then came his breakfast, for which he had very little appetite, 

 though he relished his coffee, and also an anchovy. While daudling 

 over these, he heard sundry wheels grinding about below the window, 

 and the bumping and thumping of boxes, indicative of "goings 

 away," for which he couldn't say he felt sorry. He couldn't even be 

 at the trouble of getting up and going to the window to see who it 

 was that was off, so weary and head-achy was he. He rolled and 

 lolled in his chair, now taking a sip of coffee, now a bite of anchovy 

 toast, now considering whether he durst venture on an egg, and again 

 having recourse to the Post. At last, having exhausted all the light 

 reading in it, and scanned through the list of hunting appointments, 

 he took up the Swillingford paper to see that they had got his " meets " 

 right for the next week. How astonished he was to find the pre- 

 vious day's run staring him in the face, headed " Splendid Run 

 with Me. Puffington's Hounds," in the imposing type here dis- 

 played. "Well, that's quick work, however," said he, casting his 

 eyes up to the ceiling in astonishment, and thinking how unlike it 

 was the Swillingford papers, which were always a week, but generally 

 a fortnight behindhand with information. " Splendid run with 31 r. 

 Pufiington's hounds," read he again, wondering who had done it : — 

 Eardolph, the innkeeper ; Allsop, the cabinet-maker ; Tuggins, the 

 doctor, were all out ; so was Weatherhog, the butcher. Which of 

 them could it be ? Grimes, the editor, wasn't there ; indeed, he 

 couldn't ride, and the country was not adapted for a gig. 



He then began to read it, and the further he got, the more he 

 was disgusted. At last, when he came to the "seasonal fox, which 

 some thought was a bay one," his indignation knew no bounds, and 



