MR. SPONGE GIVES PONTO A LESSONMR. SPONGE GIVES PONTO A LESSON
'That'sthe way to do it!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, as the bird fell dead before Ponto.
The excited dog, unused to such descents, snatched it up and ran off. Just as he was getting out of shot, Mr. Sponge fired the other barrel at him, causing him to drop the bird and run yelping and howling away. Jog was furious. He stamped, and gasped, and fumed, and wheezed, and seemed like to burst with anger and indignation. Though the dog ran away as hard as he could lick, Jog insisted that he was mortally wounded, and would die. 'He never saw so (wheeze) a thing done. He wouldn't have taken twenty pounds for the dog. No, he wouldn't have taken thirty. Forty wouldn't have boughthim. He was worth fifty of anybody's money,' and so he went on, fuming and advancing his value as he spoke.
Mr. Sponge stole away to where the dog had dropped the bird; and Mr. Jog, availing himself of his absence, retraced his steps down the hill, and struck off home at a much faster pace than he came. Arrived there, he found the dog in the kitchen, somewhat sore from the visitation of the shot, but not sufficiently injured to prevent his enjoying a most liberal plate of stick-jaw pudding supplied by a general contribution of the servants. Jog's wrath was then turned in another direction, and he blew up for the waste and extravagance of the act, hinting pretty freely that he knew who it was that had set them against it. Altogether he was full of troubles, vexations, and annoyances; and after spending another most disagreeable evening with our friend Sponge, went to bed more determined than ever to get rid of him.
Poor Jog again varied his hints the next morning. After sundry prefatory 'Murry Anns!' and 'Bar-tho-lo-mews!' he at length got the latter to answer, when, raising his voice so as to fill the whole house, he desired him to go to the stable, and let Mr. Sponge's man know his master would be (wheezing) away.
'You're wrong there, old buck,' growled Leather, as he heard the foregoing; 'he's half-way to Sir 'Arry's by this time.'
And sure enough, Mr. Sponge was, as none knew better than Leather, who had got him his horse, the hack being indisposed—that is to say, having been out all night with Mr. Leather on a drinking excursion, Leather having just got home in time to receive the purple-coated, bare-footed runner of Nonsuch House, who dropped in,en passant, to see if there was anything to stow away in his roomy trouser-pockets, and leave word that Sir Harry was going to hunt, and would meet before the house.
Leather, though somewhat muzzy, was sufficiently sober to be able to deliver this message, and acquaint Mr. Sponge with the impossibility of his 'ridin' the 'ack.' Indeed, he truly said that he had 'been hup with him all night, and at one time thought it was all hover with him,' the all-overishness consisting of Mr. Leather being nearly all over the hack's head, in consequence of the animal shying at another drunken man lying across the road.
Mr. Sponge listened to the recital with the indifference of a man who rides hack-horses, and coolly observed that Leather must take on the chestnut, and he would ride the brown to cover.
'Couldn't, sir, couldn't,' replied Leather, with a shake of the head and a twinkle of his roguish, watery grey eyes.
'Why not?' asked Mr. Sponge, who never saw any difficulty.
'Oh, sur,' replied Leather, in a tone of despondency, 'it would be quite unpossible. Consider wot a day the last one was; why, he didn't get to rest till three the next mornin'.'
'It'll only be walking exercise,' observed Mr. Sponge; 'do him good.'
'Better valk the chestnut,' replied Mr. Leather; 'Multum in Parvo hasn't 'ad a good day this I don't know wen, and will be all the better of a bucketin'.'
'But I hate crawling to cover on my horse,' replied Mr. Sponge, who liked cantering along with a flourish.
'You'll have to crawl if you ride 'Ercles,' observed Leather, 'if not walk. Bless you! I've been a-nussin' of him and the 'ack most the 'ole night.'
'Indeed!' replied Mr. Sponge, who began to be alarmed lest his hunting might be brought to an abrupt termination.
'True as I'm 'ere,' rejoined Leather. 'He's just as much off his grub as he vos when he com'd in; never see'd an 'oss more reg'larly dished—more—'
'Well, well,' said Mr. Sponge, interrupting the catalogue of grievances; 'I s'pose I must do as you say—I s'pose I must do as you say: what sort of a day is it?'
'Vy, the day's not a bad day; at least that's to say,it's not a wery haggrivatin' day. I've seen a betterer day, in course; but I've also seen many a much worser day, and days at this time of year, you know, are apt to change—sometimes, in course, for the betterer—sometimes, in course, for the worser.'
'Is it a frost?' snapped Mr. Sponge, tired of his loquacity.
'Is it a frost?' repeated Mr. Leather thoughtfully; 'is it a frost? Vy, no; I should say itisn'ta frost—at least, not a frost to 'urt; there may be a little rind on the ground and a little rawness in the hair, but the general concatenation—'
'Hout, tout!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, 'let's have none of your dictionary words.'
Mr. Leather stood silent, twisting his hat about.
The consequence of all this was, that Mr. Sponge determined to ride over to Nonsuch House to breakfast, which would give his horse half an hour in the stable to eat a feed of corn. Accordingly, he desired Leather to bring him his shaving-water, and have the horse ready in the stable in half an hour, whither, in due time, Mr. Sponge emerged by the back door, without encountering any of the family. The ambling piebald looked so crestfallen and woebegone in all the swaddling-clothes in which Leather had got him enveloped, that Mr. Sponge did not care to look at the gallant Hercules, who occupied a temporary loose-box at the far end of the dark stable, lest he might look worse. He, therefore, just mounted Multum in Parvo as Leather led him out at the door, and set off without a word.
'Well, hang me, but you are a good judge of weather,' exclaimed Sponge to himself, as he got into the field at the back of the house, and found the horse made little impression on the grass. 'No frost!' repeated he, breathing into the air; 'why it's freezing now, out of the sun.'
On getting into Marygold Lane, our friend drew rein, and was for turning back, but the resolute chestnut took the bit between his teeth and shook his head, as if determined to go on.
'Oh, you brute!' growled Mr. Sponge, letting thespurs into his sides with a hearty good-will, which caused the animal to kick, as if he meant to stand on his head. 'Ah, youwill, will ye?' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, letting the spurs in again as the animal replaced his legs on the ground. Up they went again, if possible higher than before.
The brute was clearly full of mischief, and even if the hounds did not throw off, which there was little prospect of their doing from the appearance of the weather, Mr. Sponge felt that it would be well to get some of the nonsense taken out of him; and, moreover, going to Nonsuch House would give him a chance of establishing a billet there—a chance that he had been deprived of by Sir Harry's abrupt departure from Farmer Peastraw's. So saying, our friend gathered his horse together, and settling himself in his saddle, made his sound hoofs ring upon the hard road.
'Hemayhunt,' thought Mr. Sponge, as he rattled along; 'such a rum beggar as Sir Harry may think it fun to go out in a frost. It's hard, too,' said he, as he saw the poor turnip-pullers enveloped in their thick shawls, and watched them thumping their arms against their sides to drive the cold from their finger-ends.
Multum in Parvo was a good, sound-constitutioned horse, hard and firm as a cricket-ball, a horse that would not turn a hair for a trifle even on a hunting morning, let alone on such a thorough chiller as this one was; and Mr. Sponge, after going along at a good round pace, and getting over the ground much quicker than he did when the road was all new to him, and he had to ask his way, at length drew in to see what o'clock it was. It was only half-past nine, and already in the far distance he saw the encircling woods of Nonsuch House.
'Shall be early,' said Mr. Sponge, returning his watch to his waistcoat-pocket, and diving into his cutty coat-pocket for the cigar-case. Having struck a light, he now laid the rein on the horse's neck and proceeded leisurely along, the animal stepping gaily and throwing its head about as if he was the quietest, most trustworthy nag in the world. If he got there at half-past ten, Mr. Spongecalculated he would have plenty of time to see after his horse, get his own breakfast, and see how the land lay for a billet.
It would be impossible to hunt before twelve; so he went smoking and sauntering along, now wondering whether he would be able to establish a billet, now thinking how he would like to sell Sir Harry a horse, then considering whether he would be likely to pay for him, and enlivening the general reflections by ringing his spurs against his stirrup-irons.
Having passed the lodges at the end of the avenue, he cocked his hat, twiddled his hair, felt his tie, and arranged for a becoming appearance. The sudden turn of the road brought him full upon the house. How changed the scene! Instead of the scarlet-coated youths thronging the gravelled ring, flourishing their scented kerchiefs and hunting-whips—instead of buxom Abigails and handsome mistresses hanging out of the windows, flirting and chatting and ogling, the door was shut, the blinds were down, the shutters closed, and the whole house had the appearance of mourning.
Mr. Sponge reined up involuntarily, startled at the change of scene. What could have happened! Could Sir Harry be dead? Could my lady have eloped? 'Oh, that horrid Bugles!' thought he; 'he looked like a gay deceiver.' And Mr. Sponge felt as if he had sustained a personal injury.
Just as these thoughts were passing in his mind, a drowsy, slatternly charwoman, in an old black straw bonnet and grey bed-gown, opened one of the shutters, and throwing up the sash of the window by where Mr. Sponge sat, disclosed the contents of the apartment. The last waxlight was just dying out in the centre of a splendid candelabra on the middle of a table scattered about with claret-jugs, glasses, decanters, pine-apple tops, grape-dishes, cakes, anchovy-toast plates, devilled biscuit-racks—all the concomitants of a sumptuous entertainment.
'Sir Harry at home?' asked Mr. Sponge, making the woman sensible of his presence, by cracking his whip close to her ear.'No,' replied the dame gruffly, commencing an assault upon the nearest chair with a duster.
'Where is he?' asked our friend.
'Bed, to be sure,' replied the woman, in the same tone.
MR. SPONGE'S RED COAT COMMANDS NO RESPECTMR. SPONGE'S RED COAT COMMANDS NO RESPECT
'Bed, to be sure,' repeated Mr. Sponge. 'I don't think there's any 'sure' in the case. Do you know what o'clock it is?' asked he.
'No,' replied the woman, flopping away at another chair, and arranging the crimson velvet curtains on the holders.
Mr. Sponge was rather nonplussed. His red coat did not command the respect that a red coat generally does. The fact was, they had such queer people in red coats atNonsuch House, that a red coat was rather an object of suspicion than otherwise.
'Well, but, my good woman,' continued Mr. Sponge, softening his tone, 'can you tell me where I shall find anybody who can tell me anything about the hounds?'
'No,' growled the woman, still flopping, and whisking, and knocking the furniture about.
'I'll remember you for your trouble,' observed Mr. Sponge, diving his right hand into his breeches' pocket.
'Mr. Bottleends be gone to bed,' observed the woman, now ceasing her evolutions, and parting her grisly, disordered tresses, as she advanced and stood staring, with her arms akimbo, out of the window. She was the under-housemaid's deputy; all the servants at Nonsuch House doing the rough of their work by deputy. Lady Scattercash was areallady, and liked to have the credit of the house maintained, which of course can only be done by letting the upper servants do nothing. 'Mr. Bottleends be gone to bed,' observed the woman.
'Mr. Bottleends?' repeated Mr. Sponge; 'who's he?'
'The butler, to be sure,' replied she, astonished that any person should have to ask who such an important personage was.
'Can't you call him?' asked Mr. Sponge, still fumbling in his pocket.
'Couldn't, if it was ever so,' replied the dame, smoothing her dirty blue-checked apron with her still dirtier hand.
'Why not?' asked Mr. Sponge.
'Why not?' repeated the woman; 'why, 'cause Mr. Bottleends won't be disturbed by no one. He said when he went to bed that he hadn't to be called till to-morrow.'
'Not called till to-morrow!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge; 'then is Sir Harry from home?'
'From home, no; what should put that i' your head?' sneered the woman.
'Why, if the butler's in bed, one may suppose the master's away.'
'Hout!' snapped the woman; 'Sir Harry's i' bed—Captin Seedeybuck's i' bed—Captin Quod's i' bed—Captin Spangle's i' bed—Captin Bouncey's i' bed—Captin Cutitfat's i' bed—they're all i' bed 'cept me, andI've got the house to clean and right, and high time it was cleaned and righted, for they've not been i' bed these three nights any on 'em.' So saying, she flourished her duster as if about to set-to again.
'Well, but tell me,' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, 'can I see the footman, or the huntsman, or the groom, or a helper, or anybody?'
'Deary knows,' replied the woman thoughtfully, resting her chin on her hand. 'I dare say they'll be all i' bed too.'
'But they are going to hunt, aren't they?' asked our friend.
'Hunt!' exclaimed the woman; 'what should put that i' your head.'
'Why, they sent me word they were.'
'It'll be i' bed, then,' observed she, again giving symptoms of a desire to return to her dusting.
Mr. Sponge, who still kept his hand in his pocket, sat on his horse in a state of stupid bewilderment. He had never seen a case of this sort before—a house shut up, and a master of hounds in bed when the hounds were to meet before the door. It couldn't be the case: the woman must be dreaming, or drunk, or both.
'Well, but, my good woman,' exclaimed he, as she gave a punishing cut at the chair, as if to make up for lost time; 'well, but, my good woman, I wish you would try and find somebody who can tell me something about the hounds. I'm sure they must be going to hunt. I'll remember you for your trouble, if you will,' added he, again diving his hand up to the wrist in his pocket.
'I tell you,' replied the woman slowly and deliberately, 'there'll be no huntin' to-day. Huntin'!' exclaimed she; 'how can they hunt when they've all had to be carried to bed?'
'Carried to bed! had they?' exclaimed Mr. Sponge; 'what, were they drunk?'
'Drunk! aye, to be sure. What would you have them be?' replied the crone, who seemed to think that drinking was a necessary concomitant of hunting.
'Well, but I can see the footman or somebody, surely,' observed Mr. Sponge, fearing that his chance was out fora billet, and recollecting old Jog's 'Bartholo-m-e-ws!' and 'Murry Anns!' and intimations for him to start.
''Deed you can't,' replied the dame—'ye can see nebody but me,' added she, fixing her twinkling eyes intently upon him as she spoke.
'Well, that's a pretty go,' observed Mr. Sponge aloud to himself, ringing his spurs against his stirrup-irons.
'Pretty go or ugly go,' snapped the woman, thinking it was a reflection on herself, 'it's all you'll get'; and thereupon she gave the back of the chair a hearty bastinadoing as if in exemplification of the way she would like to serve Mr. Sponge out for the observation.
'I came here thinking to get some breakfast,' observed Mr. Sponge, casting an eye upon the disordered table, and reconnoitring the bottles and the remains of the dessert.
'Did you?' said the woman; 'I wish you may get it.'
'I wish I may,' replied he. 'If you would manage that for me, just some coffee and a mutton chop or two, I'd remember you,' said he, still tantalizing her with the sound of the silver in his pocket.
'Me manish it!' exclaimed the woman, her hopes again rising at the sound; 'me manish it! how d'ye think I'm to manish sich things?' asked she.
'Why, get at the cook, or the housekeeper, or somebody,' replied Mr. Sponge.
'Cook or housekeeper!' exclaimed she. 'There'll be no cook or housekeeper astir here these many hours yet; I question,' added she, 'they get up to-day.'
'What! they've been put to bed too, have they?' asked he.
'W-h-y no—not zactly that,' drawled the woman; 'but when sarvants are kept up three nights out of four, they must make up for lost time when they can.'
'Well,' mused Mr. Sponge, 'this is a bother, at all events; get no breakfast, lose my hunt, and perhaps a billet into the bargain. Well, there's sixpence for you, my good woman,' said he at length, drawing his hand out of his pocket and handing her the contents through the window; adding, 'don't make a beast of yourself with it.'
'It's nabbutfourpence,' observed the woman, holding it out on the palm of her hand.
'Ah, well, you're welcome to it whatever it is,' replied our friend, turning his horse to go away. A thought then struck him. 'Could you get me a pen and ink, think you?' asked he; 'I want to write a line to Sir Harry.'
'Pen and ink!' replied the woman, who had pocketed the groat and resumed her dusting; 'I don't know where they keep no such things as penses and inkses.'
'Most likely in the drawing-room or the sitting-room, or perhaps in the butler's pantry,' observed Mr. Sponge.
'Well, you can come in and see,' replied the woman, thinking there was no occasion to give herself any more trouble for the fourpenny-piece.
Our worthy friend sat on his horse a few seconds staring intently into the dining-room window, thinking that lapse of time might cause the fourpenny-piece to be sufficiently respected to procure him something like directions how to proceed as well to get rid of his horse, as to procure access to the house, the door of which stood frowningly shut. In this, however, he was mistaken, for no sooner had the woman uttered the words, 'Well, you can come in and see,' than she flaunted into the interior of the room, and commenced a regular series of assaults upon the furniture, throwing the hearth-rug over one chair back, depositing the fire-irons in another, rearing the steel fender up against the Carrara marble chimney-piece, and knocking things about in the independent way that servants treat unoffending furniture, when master and mistress are comfortably esconced in bed. 'Flop' went the duster again; 'bang' went the furniture; 'knock' this chair went against that, and she seemed bent upon putting all things into that happy state of sixes and sevens that characterizes a sale of household furniture, when chairs mount tables, and the whole system of domestic economy is revolutionized. Seeing that he was not going to get anything more for his money, our friend at length turned his horse and found his way to the stables by the unerring drag of carriage-wheels. All things there being as matters were in the house, he put the redoubtable nag into a stall,and helped him to a liberal measure of oats out of the well-stored unlocked corn-bin. He then sought the back of the house by the worn flagged-way that connected it with the stables. The back yard was in the admired confusion that might be expected from the woman's account. Empty casks and hampers were piled and stowed away in all directions, while regiments of champagne and other bottles stood and lay about among blacking bottles, Seltzer-water bottles, boot-trees, bath-bricks, old brushes, and stumpt-up besoms. Several pair of dirty top-boots, most of them with the spurs on, were chucked into the shoe-house just as they had been taken off. The kitchen, into which our friend now entered, was in the same disorderly state. Numerous copper pans stood simmering on the charcoal stoves, and the jointless jack still revolved on the spit. A dirty slip-shod girl sat sleeping, with her apron thrown over her head, which rested on the end of a table. The open door of the servants' hall hard by disclosed a pile of dress and other clothes, which, after mopping up the ale and other slops, would be carefully folded and taken back to the rooms of their respective owners.
DOMESTIC ECONOMY OF NONSUCH HOUSEDOMESTIC ECONOMY OF NONSUCH HOUSE
'Halloo!' cried Mr. Sponge, shaking the sleeping girl by the shoulder, which caused her to start up, stare,and rub her eyes in wild affright. 'Halloo!' repeated he, 'what's happened you?'
'Oh, beg pardon, sir!' exclaimed she; 'beg pardon,' continued she, clasping her hands; 'I'll never do so again, sir; no, sir, I'll never do so again, indeed I won't.'
She had just stolen a shape of blanc-mange, and thought she was caught.
'Then show me where I'll find pen and ink and paper,' replied our friend.
'Oh, sir, I don't know nothin' about them,' replied the girl; 'indeed, sir, I don't'; thinking it was some other petty larceny he was inquiring about.
'Well, but you can tell me where to find a sheet of paper, surely?' rejoined he.
'Oh, indeed, sir, I can't,' replied she; 'I know nothin' about nothin' of the sort.' Servants never do.
'What sort?' asked Mr. Sponge, wondering at her vehemence.
'Well, sir, about what you said,' sobbed the girl, applying the corner of her dirty apron to her eyes.
'Hang it, the girl's mad,' rejoined our friend, brushing by, and making for the passage beyond. This brought him past the still-room, the steward's room, the housekeeper's room, and the butler's pantry. All were in most glorious confusion; in the latter, Captain Cutitfat's lacquer-toed, lavender-coloured dress-boots were reposing in the silver soup tureen, and Captain Bouncey's varnished pumps were stuffed into a wine-cooler. The last detachment of empty bottles stood or lay about the floor, commingling with boot-jacks, knife-trays, bath-bricks, coat-brushes, candle-end boxes, plates, lanterns, lamp-glasses, oil bottles, corkscrews, wine-strainers—the usual miscellaneous appendages of a butler's pantry. All was still and quiet; not a sound, save the loud ticking of a timepiece, or the occasional creak of a jarring door, disturbed the solemn silence of the house. A nimble-handed mugger or tramp might have carried off whatever he liked.
Passing onward, Mr. Sponge came to a red-baized, brass-nailed door, which, opening freely on a patent spring, revealed the fine proportions of a light picture-gallerywith which the bright mahogany doors of the entertaining rooms communicated. Opening the first door he came to, our friend found himself in the elegant drawing-room, on whose round bird's-eye-maple table, in the centre, were huddled all the unequal-lengthed candles of the previous night's illumination. It was a handsome apartment, fitted up in the most costly style; with rose-colour brocaded satin damask, the curtains trimmed with silk tassel fringe, and ornamented with massive bullion tassels on cornices, Cupids supporting wreaths under an arch, with open carved-work and enrichments in burnished gold. The room, save the muster of the candles, was just as it had been left; and the richly gilt sofa still retained the indentations of the sitters, with the luxurious down pillows, left as they had been supporting their backs.
The room reeked of tobacco, and the ends and ashes of cigars dotted the tables and white marble chimney-piece, and the gilt slabs and the finely flowered Tournay carpet, just as the fires of gipsies dot and disfigure the fair face of a country. Costly china and nick-nacks of all sorts were scattered about in profusion. Altogether, it was a beautiful room.
'No want of money here,' said Mr. Sponge to himself, as he eyed it, and thought what havoc Gustavus James would make among the ornaments if he had a chance.
He then looked about for pen, ink, and paper. These were distributed so wide apart as to show the little request they were in. Having at length succeeded in getting what he wanted gathered together, Mr. Sponge sat down on the luxurious sofa, considering how he should address his host, as he hoped. Mr. Sponge was not a shy man, but, considering the circumstances under which he made Sir Harry Scattercash's acquaintance, together with his design upon his hospitality—above all, considering the crew by whom Sir Harry was surrounded—it required some little tact to pave the way without raising the present inmates of the house against him. There are no people so anxious to protect others from robbery as those who are robbing them themselves. Mr. Sponge thought, and thought, and thought. At lasthe resolved to write on the subject of the hounds. After sundry attempts on pink, blue, and green-tinted paper, he at last succeeded in hitting off the following, on yellow:
'NONSUCH HOUSE.'Dear sir harry,—I rode over this morning, hearing you were to hunt, and am sorry to find you indisposed. I wish you would drop me a line to Mr. Crowdey's, Puddingpote Bower, saying when next you go out, as I should much like to have another look at your splendid pack before I leave this country, which I fear will have to be soon.—Yours in haste,'H. SPONGE.'P.S.—I hope you all got safe home the other night from Mr. Peastraw's.'
'NONSUCH HOUSE.
'Dear sir harry,—I rode over this morning, hearing you were to hunt, and am sorry to find you indisposed. I wish you would drop me a line to Mr. Crowdey's, Puddingpote Bower, saying when next you go out, as I should much like to have another look at your splendid pack before I leave this country, which I fear will have to be soon.—Yours in haste,
'H. SPONGE.
'P.S.—I hope you all got safe home the other night from Mr. Peastraw's.'
Having put this into a richly gilt and embossed envelope, our friend directed it conspicuously to Sir Harry Scattercash, Bart., and stuck it in the centre of the mantelpiece. He then retraced his steps through the back regions, informing the sleeping beauty he had before disturbed, and who was now busy scouring a pan, that he had left a letter in the drawing-room for Sir Harry, and if she would see that he got it, he (Mr. Sponge) would remember her the next time he came, which he inwardly hoped would be soon. He then made for the stable, and got his horse, to go home, sauntering more leisurely along than one would expect of a man who had not got his breakfast, especially one riding a hack hunter.
The truth was, Mr. Sponge did not much like the aspect of affairs. Sir Harry's was evidently a desperately 'fast' house; added to which, the guests by whom he was surrounded were clearly of the wide-awake order, who could not spare any pickings for a stranger. Indeed, Mr. Sponge felt that they rather cold-shouldered him at Farmer Peastraw's, and were in a greater hurry to be off when the drag came, than the mere difference between inside and outside seats required. He much questioned whether he got into Sir Harry's at all. If it came to a vote, he thought he should not. Then, what was he to do? Old Jog was clearly tired of him; and he hadnowhere else to go to. The thought made him stick spurs into the chestnut, and hurry home to Puddingpote Bower, where he endeavoured to soothe his host by more than insinuating that he was going on a visit to Nonsuch House. Jog inwardly prayed that he might.
It was just as Mr. Sponge predicted with regard to his admission to Nonsuch House. The first person who spied his note to Sir Harry Scattercash was Captain Seedeybuck, who, going into the drawing-room, the day after Mr. Sponge's visit, to look for the top of his cigar-case, saw it occupying the centre of the mantelpiece. Having mastered its contents, the Captain refolded and placed it where he found it, with the simple observation to himself of—'That cock won't fight.'
Captain Quod saw it next, then Captain Bouncey, who told Captain Cutitfat what was in it, who agreed with Bouncey that it wouldn't do to have Mr. Sponge there.
Indeed, it seemed agreed on all hands that their party rather wanted weeding than increasing.
Thus, in due time, everybody in the house knew the contents of the note save Sir Harry, though none of them thought it worth while telling him of it. On the third morning, however, as the party were assembling for breakfast, he came into the room reading it.
'This (hiccup) note ought to have been delivered before,' observed he, holding it up.
'Indeed, my dear,' replied Lady Scattercash, who was sitting gloriously fine and very beautiful at the head of the table, 'I don't know anything about it.'
'Who is it from?' asked brother Bob Spangles.
'Mr. (hiccup) Sponge,' replied Sir Harry.
'What a name!' exclaimed Captain Seedeybuck.
'Who is he?' asked Captain Quod.
'Don't know,' replied Sir Harry; 'he writes to (hiccup) about the hounds.''Oh, it'll be that brown-booted buffer,' observed Captain Bouncey, 'that we left at old Peastraw's.'
'No doubt,' assented Captain Cutitfat, adding, 'what business has he with the hounds?'
'He wants to know when we are going to (hiccup) again,' observed Sir Harry.
'Does he?' replied Captain Seedeybuck. 'That, I suppose, will depend upon Watchorn.'
The party now got settled to breakfast, and as soon as the first burst of appetite was appeased, the conversation again turned upon our friend Mr. Sponge.
'Whoisthis Mr. Sponge?' asked Captain Bouncey, the billiard-marker, with the air of a thorough exclusive.
Nobody answered.
'Who's your friend?' asked he of Sir Harry direct.
'Don't know,' replied Sir Harry, from between the mouthfuls of a highly cayenned grill.
'P'raps a bolting betting-office keeper,' suggested Captain Ladofwax, who hated Captain Bouncey.
'He looks more like a glazier, I think,' retorted Captain Bouncey, with a look of defiance at the speaker.
'Lucky if he is one,' retorted Captain Ladofwax, reddening up to the eyes; 'he may have a chance of repairing somebody's daylights.' The captain raising his saucer, to discharge it at his opponent's head.
'Gently with the cheney!' exclaimed Lady Scattercash, who was too much used to such scenes to care about the belligerents. Bob Spangles caught Ladofwax's arm at the nick of time, and saved the saucer.
'Hout! you (hiccup) fellows are always (hiccup)ing,' exclaimed Sir Harry. 'I declare I'll have you both (hiccup)ed over to keep the peace.'
They then broke out into wordy recrimination and abuse, each declaring that he wouldn't stay a day longer in the house if the other remained; but as they had often said so before, and still gave no symptoms of going, their assertion produced little effect upon anybody. Sir Harry would not have cared if all his guests had gone together. Peace and order being at length restored, the conversation again turned upon Mr. Sponge.
'I suppose we must have another (hiccup) hunt soon,' observed Sir Harry.
'In course,' replied Bob Spangles; 'it's no use keeping the hungry brutes unless you work them.'
'You'll have a bagman, I presume,' observed Captain Seedeybuck, who did not like the trouble of travelling about the country to draw for a fox.
'Oh yes,' replied Sir Harry; 'Watchorn will manage all that. He's always (hiccup) in that line. We'd better have a hunt soon, and then, Mr. (hiccup) Bugles, you can see it.' Sir Harry addressing himself to a gentleman he was as anxious to get rid of as Mr. Jogglebury Crowdey was to get rid of Mr. Sponge.
'No; Mr. Bugles won't go out any more,' replied Lady Scattercash peremptorily. 'He was nearly killed last time'; her ladyship casting an angry glance at her husband, and a very loving one on the object of her solicitude.
'Oh, nought's never in danger!' observed Bob Spangles.
'Thenyoucan go, Bob,' snapped his sister.
'I intend,' replied Bob.
'Then (hiccup), gentlemen, I think I'll just write this Mr. (hiccup) What's-his-name to (hiccup) over here,' observed Sir Harry, 'and then he'll be ready for the (hiccup) hunt whenever we choose to (hiccup) one.'
The proposition fell still-born among the party.
'Don't you think we can do without him?' at last suggested Captain Seedeybuck.
'Ithink so,' observed the elder Spangles, without looking up from his plate.
'Who is it?' asked Lady Scattercash.
'The man that was here the other morning—the man in the queer chestnut-coloured boots,' replied Mr. Orlando Bugles.
'Oh, I think he's rather good-looking; I vote we have him,' replied her ladyship.
That was rather a damper for Sir Harry; but upon reflection, he thought he could not be worse off with Mr. Sponge and Mr. Bugles than he was with Mr. Bugles alone; so, having finished a poor appetiteless breakfast,he repaired to what he called his 'study,' and with a feeble, shaky hand, scrawled an invitation to Mr. Sponge to come over to Nonsuch House, and take his chance of a run with his hounds. He then sealed and posted the letter without further to do.
MR. FACEY ROMFORDMR. FACEY ROMFORD
our days had now elapsed since Mr. Sponge penned his overture to Sir Harry, and each succeeding day satisfied him more of the utter impossibility of holding on much longer in his then billet at Puddingpote Bower. Not only was Jog coarse and incessant in his hints to him to be off, but Jawleyford-like he had lowered the standard of entertainment so greatly, that if it hadn't been that Mr. Sponge had his servant and horses kept also, he might as well have been living at his own expense. The company lights were all extinguished; great, strong-smelling, cauliflower-headed moulds, that were always wanting snuffing, usurped the place of Belmont wax; napkins were withdrawn; second-hand table-cloths introduced; marsala did duty for sherry; and the stickjaw pudding assumed a consistency that was almost incompatible with articulation.
In the course of this time Sponge wrote to Puffington, saying if he was better he would return and finish his visit; but the wary Puff sent a messenger off express with a note, lamenting that he was ordered to Handley Cross for his health, but 'pop'lar man' like, hoping that the pleasure of Sponge's company was only deferred for another season. Jawleyford, even Sponge thought hopeless; and, altogether, he was very much perplexed. He had made a little money certainly, with his horses; but a permanent investment of his elegant person, such ashe had long been on the look-out for, seemed as far off as ever. On the afternoon of the fifth day, as he was taking a solitary stroll about the country, having about made up his mind to be off to town, just as he was crossing Jog's buttercup meadow on his way to the stable, a rapid bang! bang! caused him to start, and, looking over the hedge, he saw a brawny-looking sportsman in brown reloading his gun, with a brace of liver-and-white setters crouching like statues in the stubble.
'Seek dead!' presently said the shooter, with a slight wave of his hand; and in an instant each dog was picking up his bird.
'I'll have a word with you,' said Sponge, 'on and off-ing' the hedge, his beat causing the shooter to start and look as if inclined for a run; second thoughts said Sponge was too near, and he'd better brave it.
'What sport?' asked Sponge, striding towards him.
'Oh, pretty middling,' replied the shooter, a great red-headed, freckly faced fellow, with backward-lying whiskers, crowned in a drab rustic. 'Oh, pretty middling,' repeated he, not knowing whether to act on the friendly or defensive.
'Fine day!' said Sponge, eyeing his fox-maskey whiskers and stout, muscular frame.
'It is,' replied the shooter; adding, 'just followed my birds over the boundary. No 'fence, I s'pose—no 'fence.'
'Oh no,' said Mr. Sponge. 'Jog, I dessay, 'll be very glad to see you.'
'Oh, you'll be Mr. Sponge?' observed the stranger, jumping to a conclusion.
'I am,' replied our hero; adding, 'may I ask who I have the honour of addressing?'
'My name's Romford—Charley Romford; everybody knows me. Very glad to make your 'quaintance,' tendering Sponge a great, rough, heavy hand. 'I was goin' to call upon you,' observed the stranger, as he ceased swinging Sponge's arm to and fro like a pump-handle; 'I was goin' to call upon you, to see if you'd come over to Washingforde, and have some shootin' at me Oncle's—Oncle Gilroy's, at Queercove Hill.'
'Most happy!' exclaimed Sponge, thinking it was the very thing he wanted.
'Get a day with the harriers, too, if you like,' continued the shooter, increasing the temptation.
'Better still!' thought Sponge.
'I've only bachelor 'commodation to offer you; but p'raps you'll not mind roughing it a bit?' observed Romford.
'Oh, faith, not I!' replied Sponge, thinking of the luxuries of Puffington's bachelor habitation. 'What sort of stables have you?' asked our friend.
'Capital stables—excellent stables!' replied the shooter; 'stalls six feet in the clear, by twelve dip (deep), iron racks, oak stall-posts covered with zinc, beautiful oats, capital beans, splendacious hay—won without a shower!'
'Bravo!' exclaimed Sponge, thinking he had lit on his legs, and might snap his fingers at Jog and his hints. He'd take the high hand, and give Jog up.
'I'm your man!' said Sponge, in high glee.
'When will you come?' asked Romford.
'To-morrow!' replied Sponge firmly.
'So be it,' rejoined his proffered host; and, with another hearty swing of the arm, the newly made friends parted.
Charley Romford, or Facey, as he was commonly called, from his being the admitted most impudent man in the country, was a great, round-faced, coarse-featured, prize-fighting sort of fellow, who lived chiefly by his wits, which he exercised in all the legitimate lines of industry—poaching, betting, boxing, horse-dealing, cards, quoits—anything that came uppermost. That he was a man of enterprise, we need hardly add, when he had formed a scheme for doing our Sponge—a man that we do not think any of our readers would trouble themselves to try a 'plant' upon.
This impudent Facey, as if in contradiction of terms, was originally intended for a civil engineer; but having early in life voted himself heir to his uncle, Mr. Gilroy, of Queercove Hill, a great cattle-jobber, with a 'small independence of his own'—three hundred a year, perhaps,which a kind world called six—Facey thought he would just hang about until his uncle was done with his shoes, and then be lord of Queercove Hill.
Now, 'me Oncle Gilroy,' of whom Facey was constantly talking, had a left-handed wife and promising family in the sylvan retirement of St. John's Wood, whither he used to retire after his business in 'Smi'fiel'' was over; so that Facey, for once, was out in his calculations. Gilroy, however, being as knowing as 'his nevvey,' as he called him, just encouraged Facey in his shooting, fishing, and idle propensities generally, doubtless finding it more convenient to have his fish and game for nothing than to pay for them.
Facey, having the apparently inexhaustible sum of a thousand pounds, began life as a fox-hunter—in a very small way, to be sure—more for the purpose of selling horses than anything else; but, having succeeded in 'doing' all the do-able gentlemen, both with the 'Tip and Go' and Cranerfield hounds, his occupation was gone, it requiring an extended field—such as our friend Sponge roamed—to carry on cheating in horses for any length of time. Facey was soon blown, his name in connexion with a horse being enough to prevent any one looking at him. Indeed, we question that there is any less desirable mode of making, or trying to make money, than by cheating or even dealing in horses. Many people fancy themselves cheated, whatever they get; while the man who is really cheated never forgets it, and proclaims it to the end of time. Moreover, no one can go on cheating in horses for any length of time, without putting himself in the power of his groom; and let those who have seen how servants lord it over each other say how they would like to subject themselves to similar treatment.—But to our story.
Facey Romford had now a splendid milk-white horse, well-known in Mr. Nobbington's and Lord Leader's hunts as Mr. Hobler, but who Facey kindly rechristened the 'Nonpareil,' which the now rising price of oats, and falling state of his finances, made him particularly anxious to get rid of, ere the horse performed the equestrian feat of 'eating its head off.' He was a veryhunter-like looking horse, but his misfortune consisted in having such shocking seedy toes, that he couldn't keep his shoes on. If he got through the first field with them on, they were sure to be off at the fence. This horse Facey voted to be the very thing for Mr. Sponge, and hearing that he had come into the country to hunt, it occurred to him that it would be a capital thing if he could get him to take Mother Overend's spare bed and lodge with him, twelve shillings a week being more than Facey liked paying for his rooms. Not that he paid twelve shillings for the rooms alone; on the contrary, he had a two-stalled stable, with a sort of kennel for his pointers, and a sty for his pig into the bargain. This pig, which was eaten many times in anticipation, had at length fallen a victim to the butcher, and Facey's larder was uncommonly well found in black-puddings, sausages, spare ribs, and the other component parts of a pig: so that he was in very hospitable circumstances—at least, in his rough and ready idea of what hospitality ought to be. Indeed, whether he had or not, he'd have risked it, being quite as good at carrying things off with a high hand as Mr. Sponge himself.
The invitation came most opportunely; for, worn out with jealousy and watching, Jog had made up his mind to cut to Australia, and when Sponge returned after meeting Facey, Jog was in the act of combing out an advertisement, offering all that desirable sporting residence called Puddingpote Bower, with the coach-house, stables, and offices thereunto belonging, to let, and announcing that the whole of the valuable household furniture, comprising mahogany, dining, loo, card, and Pembroke tables; sofa, couch, and chairs in hair seating; cheffonier, with plate glass; book-case; flower-stands; pianoforte, by Collard and Collard; music-stool and Canterbury; chimney and pier-glasses; mirror; ormolu time-piece; alabaster and wax figures and shades; china; Brussels carpets and rugs; fenders and fire-irons; curtains and cornices; Venetian blinds; mahogany four-post, French, and camp bedsteads; feather beds; hair mattresses; mahogany chests of drawers; dressing-glasses; wash and dressing-tables;patent shower-bath; bed and table-linen; dinner and tea-ware; warming-pans, &c., would be exposed to immediate and unreserved sale.
How gratefully Sponge's inquiry if he knew Mr. Romford fell on his ear, as they sat moodily together after dinner over some very low-priced port.
'Oh yes (puff)—oh yes (wheeze)—oh yes (gasp)! Know Charley Romford—Facey, as they call him. He's (puff, wheeze, gasp) heir to old Mr. Gilroy, of Queercove Hill.'
'Just so,' rejoined Sponge, 'just so; that's the man—stout, square-built fellow, with backward-growing whiskers. I'm going to stay with him to shoot at old Gil's. Where does Charley live?'
'Live!' exclaimed Jog, almost choked with delight at the information; 'live! live!' repeated he, for the third time; 'lives at (puff, wheeze, gasp, cough) Washingforde—yes, at Washingforde; 'bout ten miles from (puff, wheeze) here. When d'ye go?'
'To-morrow,' replied Sponge, with an air of offended dignity.
Jog was so rejoiced that he could hardly sit on his chair.
Mrs. Jog, when she heard it, felt that Gustavus James's chance of independence was gone; for well she knew that Jog would never let Sponge come back to the Bower.
We need scarcely say that Jog was up betimes in the morning, most anxious to forward Mr. Sponge's departure. He offered to allow Bartholomew to convey him and his 'traps' in the phaeton—an offer that Mr. Sponge availed himself of as far as his 'traps' were concerned, though he preferred cantering over on his piebald to trailing along in Jog's jingling chay. So matters were arranged, and Mr. Sponge forthwith proceeded to put his brown boots, his substantial cords, his superfine tights, his cuttey scarlet, his dress blue saxony, his clean linen, his heavy spurs, and though last, not least in importance, his now backlessMogg, into his solid leather portmanteau, sweeping the surplus of his wardrobe into a capacious carpet-bag. While the guest was thus busy upstairs, the host wandered about restlessly, now stirring up this person, now hurrying that, in the full enjoyment of the much-coveted departure. Hispleasure was, perhaps, rather damped by a running commentary he overheard through the lattice-window of the stable, from Leather, as he stripped his horses and tried to roll up their clothing in a moderate compass.
''Ord rot your great carcass!' exclaimed he, giving the roll a hearty kick in its bulging-out stomach, on finding that he had not got it as small as he wanted. ''Ord rot your great carcass,' repeated he, scratching his head and eyeing it as it lay; 'this is all the consequence of your nasty brewers' hapron weshins—blowin' of one out, like a bladder!' and, thereupon, he placed his hand on his stomach to feel how his own was. 'Never see'd sich a house, or sich an awful mean man!' continued he, stooping and pommelling the package with his fists. It was of no use, he could not get it as small as he wished—'Must have my jacket out on you, I do believe,' added he, seeing where the impediment was; 'sticks in your gizzard just like a lump of old Puff-and-blow's puddin''; and then he thrust his hand into the folds of the clothing, and pulled out the greasy garment. 'Now,' said he, stooping again, 'I think we may manish ye'; and he took the roll in his arms and hoisted it on to Hercules, whom he meant to make the led horse, observing aloud, as he adjusted it on the saddle, and whacked it well with his hands to make it lie right, 'I wish it was old Jog—wouldn't I sarve him out!' He then turned his horses round in their stalls, tucked his greasy jacket under the flap of the saddle-bags, took his ash-stick from the crook, and led them out of the capacious door. Jog looked at him with mingled feelings of disgust and delight. Leather just gave his old hat flipe a rap with his forefinger as he passed with the horses—a salute that Jog did not condescend to return.
Having eyed the receding horses with great satisfaction, Jog re-entered the house by the kitchens, to have the pleasure of seeing Mr. Sponge off. He found the portmanteau and carpet-bag standing in the passage, and just at the moment the sound of the phaeton wheels fell on his ear, as Bartholomew drove round from the coach-house to the door. Mr. Sponge was already inthe parlour, making his adieus to Mrs. Jog and the children, who were all assembled for the purpose.
'What, are you goin'?' (puff) asked Jog, with an air of surprise.
'Yes,' replied Mr. Sponge; adding, as he tendered his hand, 'the best friends must part, you know.'
'Well (puff), but you'd better have your (wheeze) horse round,' observed Jog, anxious to avoid any overture for a return.
'Thankee,' replied Mr. Sponge, making a parting bow; 'I'll get him at the stable.'
'I'll go with you,' said Jog, leading the way.
Leather had saddled, and bridled, and turned him round in the stall, with one of Mr. Jog's blanket-rugs on, which Mr. Sponge just swept over his tail into the manger, and led the horse out.
'Adieu!' said he, offering his hand to his host.
'Good-bye!—good (puff) sport to you,' said Jog, shaking it heartily.
Mr. Sponge then mounted his hack, and cocking out his toe, rode off at a canter.
At the same moment, Bartholomew drove away from the front door; and Jog, having stood watching the phaeton over the rise of Pennypound Hill, scraped his feet, re-entered his house, and rubbing them heartily on the mat as he closed the sash-door, observed aloud to himself, with a jerk of his head:
'Well, now, that's the most (puff) impittent feller I ever saw in my life! Catch me (gasp) godpapa-hunting again.'
The fatal invitation to Mr. Sponge having been sent, the question that now occupied the minds of the assembled sharpers at Nonsuch House, was, whether he was a pigeon or one of themselves. That point occupied their very deep and serious consideration. If he was a 'pigeon,' they could clearly accommodate him,but if, on the other hand, he was one of themselves, it was painfully apparent that there were far too many of them there already. Of course, the subject was not discussed in full and open conclave—they were all highly honourable men in the gross—and it was only in the small and secret groups of those accustomed to hunt together and unburden their minds, that the real truth was elicited.
'What an ass Sir Harry is, to ask this Mr. Sponge,' observed Captain Quod to Captain Seedeybuck, as (cigar in mouth) they paced backwards and forwards under the flagged veranda on the west side of the house, on the morning that Sir Harry had announced his intention of asking him.
'Confounded ass,' assented Seedeybuck, from between the whiffs of his cigar.
'Dash it! one would think he had more money than he knew what to do with,' observed the first speaker, 'instead of not knowing where to lay hands on a halfpenny.'
'Soon be who-hoop,' here observed Quod, with a shake of the head.
'Fear so,' replied Seedeybuck. 'Have you heard anything fresh?'
'Nothing particular. The County Court bailiff was here with some summonses, which, of course, he put in the fire.'
'Ah! that's what he always does. He got tired of papering the smoking-room with them,' replied Seedeybuck.
'Well, it's a pity,' observed Quod, spitting as he spoke; 'but what can you expect, eaten up as he is by such a set of rubbish.'
'Shockin',' replied Seedeybuck, thinking how long he and his friend might have fattened there together.
'Do you know anything of this Mr. Sponge?' asked Captain Quod, after a pause.
'Nothin',' replied Seedeybuck, 'except what we saw of him here; but I'm sure he won't do.'
'Well, I think not either,' replied Quod; 'I didn't like his looks—he seems quite one of the free-and-easy sort.'
'Quite,' observed Seedeybuck, determined to make a set against him, instead of cultivating his acquaintance.
'This Mr. Sponge won't be any great addition to our party, I think,' muttered Captain Bouncey to Captain Cutitfat, as they stood within the bay of the library window, in apparent contemplation of the cows, but in reality conning the Sponge matter over in their minds.
'I think not,' replied Captain Cutitfat, with an emphasis.
'Wonder what made Sir Harry ask him!' whispered Bouncey, adding, aloud, for the bystanders to hear, 'That's a fine cow, isn't it?'
'Very,' replied Cutitfat, in the same key, adding, in a whisper, with a shrug of his shoulders, 'Wonder what made him ask half the people that are here!'
'The black and white one isn't a bad un,' observed Bouncey, nodding his head towards the cows, adding in an undertone, 'Most of them asked themselves, I should think.'
'Admiring the cows. Captain Bouncey?' asked the beautiful and tolerably virtuous Miss Glitters, of the Astley's Royal Amphitheatre, who had come down to spend a few days with her old friend, Lady Scattercash. 'Admiring the cows, Captain Bouncey?' asked she, sidling her elegant figure between our friends in the bay.
'We were just saying how nice it would be to have two or three pretty girls, and a sillabub, under those cedars,' replied Captain Bouncey.
'Oh, charming!' exclaimed Miss Glitters, her dark eyes sparkling as she spoke. 'Harriet!' exclaimed she, addressing herself to a young lady, who called herself Howard, but whose real name was Brown—Jane Brown—'Harriet!' exclaimed she, 'Captain Bouncey is going to give afête champêtreunder those lovely cedars.'
'Oh, how nice!' exclaimed Harriet, clapping her hands in ecstasies—theatrical ecstasies at least.
'It must be Sir Harry,' replied the billiard-table man, not fancying being 'let in' for anything.
'Oh! Sir Harry will let us have anything we like, I'm sure,' rejoined Miss Glitters.
'What is it (hiccup)?' asked Sir Harry, who, hearing his name, now joined the party.
'Oh, we want you to give us a dance under those charming cedars,' replied the lady, looking lovingly at him.
'Cedars!' hiccuped Sir Harry, 'where do you see any cedars?'
'Why there,' replied Miss Glitters, nodding towards a clump of evergreens.
'Those are (hiccup) hollies,' replied Sir Harry.