Puff to get rid of Bragg by giving him the hounds, which he did; and that great sporting luminary may be seen ‘s--c--e--u--s--e’-ing himself, and offering his service to masters of hounds any Monday at Tattersall’s -- though he still prefers a ‘quality place.’

Benjamin Buckram, the gentleman with the small independence of his own, we are sorry to say has gone to the ‘bad.’ Aggravated by the loss he sustained by his horse winning the steeplechase, he made an ill-advised onslaught on the cash-box of the London and Westminster Bank; and at three score years and ten, this distinguished ‘turfite,’ who had participated with impunity in nearly all the great robberies of the last forty years, was doomed to transportation. And yet we have seen this cracksman captain -- for he, too, was a captain at times -- jostling and bellowing for odds among some of the highest and noblest of the land!

Leather has descended to the cab-stand, of which he promises to be a distinguished ornament. He haunts the Piccadilly stands, and has what he calls ‘ ’stablish’d a raw’ on Mr Sponge to the extent of three-and-sixpence a week, under threats of exposing the robbery Sponge committed on our friend Mr Waffles. That volatile genius, we are happy to add, is quite well, and open to the attentions of any young lady who thinks she can tame a wild young man. His financial affairs are not irretrievable.

And now for the hero and heroine of our tale. The Sponges -- for our friend married Lucy shortly after the steeplechase -- stayed at Nonsuch House until the bailiffs walked in. Sir Harry then bolted to Boulogne, where he shortly afterwards died, and Bugles very properly married my lady. They are now living at Wandsworth; Mr Bugles and Lady Scattercash, very ‘much thought of’ -- as Bugles says.

Although Mr Sponge did not gain as much by winning the steeplechase as he would have done had Hercules allowed him to lose it, he still did pretty well; and being at length starved out of Nonsuch House, he arrived at his old quarters, the Bantam, in Bond Street, where he turned his attention very seriously to providing for Lucy and the little Sponge, who had now issued its prospectus. He thought over all the ways and means of making money without capital, rejecting Australia and California as unfit for sportsmen and men fond of their Moggs. Professional steeplechasing Lucy decried, declaring she would rather return to her flag-exercises at Astley’s, as soon as she was able, than have her dear Sponge risking his neck that way. Our friend at length began to fear fortune-making was not so easy as he thought -- indeed, he was soon sure of it.

One day as he was staring vacantly out of the Bantam coffee-room window, between the gilt labels, ‘Hot Soups,’ and ‘Dinners,’ he was suddenly seized with a fit of virtuous indignation at the disreputable frauds practised by unprincipled adventurers on the unwary public, in the way of betting-offices, and resolved that he would be the St George to slay this great dragon of abuse. Accordingly, after due consultation with Lucy, he invested his all in fitting up and decorating the splendid establishment in Jermyn Street, St James’s, now known as the Sponge Cigar and Betting Rooms, whose richness neither pen nor pencil can do justice to.

We must, therefore, entreat our readers to visit this emporium of honesty, where, in addition to finding lists posted on all the great events of the day, they can have the use of a Mogg while they indulge in one of Lucy’s unrivalled cigars; and noblemen, gentlemen, and officers in the household troops, may be accommodated with loans on their personal security to any amount. We see by Mr Sponge’s last advertisements that he has £116,300 to lend at three and a half per cent!

‘What a farce,’ we fancy we hear some enterprising youngster exclaim -- ‘what a farce, to suppose that such a needy scamp as Mr Sponge, who has been cheating everybody, has any money to lend, or to pay bets with if he loses!’ Right, young gentleman, right; but not a bit greater farce than to suppose that any of the plausible money-lenders, or infallible ‘tips’ with whom you, perhaps, had connection have any either, in case it’s called for. Nay, bad as he is, we’ll back old Soapey to be better than any of them -- with which encomium we most heartily bid him Adieu.