‘Almost over head,’ replied Sponge. ‘Scamperdale saw me going, and hadn’t the grace to holloa.’
‘Ah, that’s like him,’ replied Mr Puffington -- ‘that’s like him, there’s nothing pleases him so much as getting fellows into grief.’
‘Not very polite to a stranger,’ observed Mr Sponge.
‘No, it isn’t,’ replied Mr Puffington -- ‘no, it isn’t; far from it indeed -- far from it; but, low be it spoken,’ added he, ‘his lordship is only a roughish sort of customer.’
‘So he is,’ replied Mr Sponge, who thought it fine to abuse a nobleman.
‘The fact is,’ said Mr Puffington, ‘these Flat Hat chaps are all snobs. They think there are no such fine fellows as themselves under the sun; and if ever a stranger looks near them, they make a point of being as rude and disagreeable to him as they possibly can. This is what they call keeping the hunt select.’
‘Indeed!’ observed Mr Sponge, recollecting how they had complimented him; adding, ‘They seem a queer set.’
‘There’s a fellow they call ‘‘Jack,’’ ’ observed Mr Puffington, ‘who acts as a sort of bulldog to his lordship, and worries whoever his lordship sets him upon. He got into a clay-hole a little further back, and a precious splashing he was making, along with the chaplain, old Blossomnose.’
‘Ah, I saw him,’ observed Mr Sponge.
‘You should come and see my hounds,’ observed Mr Puffington.
‘What are they?’ asked Sponge.
‘The Hanby,’ replied Mr Puffington.
‘Oh! then you are Mr Puffington,’ observed Sponge, who had a sort of general acquaintance with all the hounds and masters -- indeed, with all the meets of all the hounds in the kingdom -- which he read in the weekly lists in Bell’s Life, just as he read Mogg’s Cab Fares. ‘Then you are Mr Puffington?’ observed Sponge.
‘The same,’ replied the stranger.
‘I’ll have a look at you,’ observed Sponge; adding, ‘Do you take in horses?’
‘Yours, of course,’ replied Mr Puffington, bowing; adding something about great public characters, which Sponge didn’t understand.
‘I’ll be down upon you, as the extinguisher said to the rushlight,’ observed Mr Sponge.
‘Do,’ said Mr Puffington; ‘come before the frost. Where are you staying now?’
‘I’m at Jawleyford’s,’ replied our friend.
‘Indeed! -- Jawleyford’s, are you?’ repeated Mr Puffington. ‘Good fellow, Jawleyford -- gentleman, Jawleyford. How long do you stay?’
‘Why, I haven’t made up my mind,’ replied Sponge. ‘Have no thoughts of budging at present.’
‘Ah, well -- good quarters,’ said Mr Puffington, who now smelt a rat; ‘good quarters -- nice girls -- fine fortune -- fine place, Jawleyford Court. Well, book me for the next visit,’ added he.