Mil. SPONGE S SPORTING TOUR 



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saddle or come off — whenever the breeches seemed irrevocably gone, 

 they invariably recovered themselves with a jerk or a lurch — Jog 

 now saw it was Leather on the piebald, and though he had no fancy 

 for the man, he stood to let him come up, thinking to hear something 

 of Sponge. Leather in due time saw the great looming outline of 

 our friend, and came staring and shaking his head endeavouring to 

 identify it. He thought at first it was the Squire — next he thought 

 it wasn't — then he was sure it wasn't. 



" Oh ! it's you, old boy, is it ? " at last exclaimed he, pulling up 

 beside the large holly against which our friend had placed himself, 

 " It's you, old boy, is it ? " repeated he, extending his right hand and 

 nearly overbalancing himself, adding, as he recovered his equilibrium, 

 " I thought it was the old woolpack at first," nodding his head to- 

 wards the house. " Well," spluttered he, pulling up, and sitting, as 

 he thought, quite straight in the saddle, " we've had the finest day's 

 sport and the most equitable drink I've enjoyed for many a long day. 

 'Ord bless us, what a gent that Sir 'Arry is ! He's the sort of man 

 that should have money. I'm blowed, if I were queen, but I'd melt 

 all the great blubber-headed fellows like this 'ere Crowdey down, and 

 make one sich man as Sir 'Arry out of the 'ole of 'em. Beer ! they 

 don't know what beer is there ! Nothin' but the werry strongest 

 hale, instead of the puzzon one gets at this awful mean place, that 

 looks like nothin' but the weshin' o' brewers' haprons. ! I umbly 

 begs pardon," exclaimed he, dropping from his horse on to his knees 

 on discovering that he was addressing Mr. Crowdey — " I thought it 

 was Robins, the mole-ketcher." 



" Thought it was Robins, the mole-catcher," growled Jog; "what 

 have you to do with (puff) Robins, the (wheeze) mole-catcher ? " 



Jog boiled over with indignation. At first he thought of kicking 

 Leather, a feat that his suppliant position made extremely convenient, 

 if not tempting. Prudence, however, suggested that Leather might 

 have him up for the assault. So he stood puffing and wheezing and 

 eyeing the blear-eyed, brandy-nosed, old drunkard with, as he 

 thought, a withering look of contempt ; and then, though the man 

 was drunk, and the night was dark, he waddled off, leaving Mr. 

 Leather on his once white breeches' knees. If Jog had had reasonable 

 time, say an hour or an hour and twenty minutes, to improvise it in, 

 he would have said something uncommonly sharp ; as it was he left 

 him with the pertinent inquiry we have recorded — " What have you 

 to do with Robins, the mole-catcher ? " We need hardly say that 

 this little incident did not at all ingratiate Mr. Sponge with his host, 

 who re-entered his house in a worse humour than ever. It was in- 

 sulting a gentleman on his OAvn ter-ri-tory — bearding an Englishman 

 in his own castle. " Not to be borne (puff)," said Jog. 



It was now nearly five o'clock, Jog's dinner-hour, and still no Mr. 

 Sponge. Mrs. Jog proposed waiting half-an-hour, indeed she had 



