‘What is he?’ asked Sponge.
‘Oh, just a hanger-on of his lordship’s: the creature has nothing -- nothing whatever; he lives on my lord -- eats his venison, drinks his claret, rides his horses, bullies those his lordship doesn’t like to tackle with, and makes himself generally useful.’
‘He seems a man of that sort,’ observed Sponge, as he thought over the compliments he had received.
‘Well, who else had you out, then?’ asked Jawleyford. ‘Was Tom Washball there?’
‘No,’ replied Sponge: ‘he wasn’t out, I know.’
‘Ah, that’s unfortunate,’ observed Jawleyford, helping himself and passing the bottle. ‘Tom’s a capital fellow -- a perfect gentleman -- great friend of mine. If he’d been out you’d have had nothing to do but mention my name, and he’d have put you all right in a minute. Who else was there, then?’ continued he.
‘There was a tall man in black, on a good-looking young brown horse, rather rash at his fences, but a fine style of goer.’
‘What!’ exclaimed Jawleyford, ‘a man in drab cords and jack-boots, with the brim of his hat rather turning upwards?’
‘Just so,’ replied Sponge; ‘and a double ribbon for a hat-string.’
‘That’s Master Blossomnose,’ observed Jawleyford, scarcely able to contain his indignation. ‘That’s Master Blossomnose,’ repeated he, taking a back hand at the port in the excitement of the moment. ‘More to his credit if he were to stay at home and attend to his parish,’ added Jawleyford; meaning, it would have been more to his credit if he had fulfilled his engagement to him that evening, instead of going out hunting in the morning.
The two then sat silent for a time, Sponge seeing where the sore place was, and Robert Foozle, as usual, seeing nothing.
‘Ah, well,’ observed Jawleyford, at length breaking silence, ‘it was unfortunate you went this morning. I did my best to prevent you -- told you what a long way it was, and so on. However, never mind, we will put all right tomorrow. His lordship, I’m sure, will be most happy to see you. So help yourself,’ continued he, passing the ‘Wintle,’ ‘and we will drink his health, and success to fox-hunting.’
Sponge filled a bumper and drank his lordship’s health, with the accompaniment as desired; and turning to Robert Foozle, who was doing likewise, said, ‘Are you fond of hunting?’
‘Yes, I’m fond of hunting,’ replied Foozle.
‘But you don’t hunt, you know, Robert,’ observed Jawleyford.
‘No, I don’t hunt,’ replied Robert.
The ‘green seal’ being demolished, Jawleyford ordered a bottle of the ‘other,’ attributing the slight discoloration (which he did not discover until they had nearly finished the bottle) to change of atmosphere in the outer cellar. Sponge tackled vigorously with the newcomer, which was better than the first; and Robert Foozle, drinking as he spoke, by pattern, kept filling away, much to Jawleyford’s dissatisfaction, who was compelled to order a third. During the progress of its demolition, the host’s tongue became considerably loosened. He talked of hunting and the charms of the chase -- of the good fellowship it produced; and expatiated on the advantages it was of to the country in a national point of view, promoting as it did a spirit of manly