said he, casting his eyes up to the ceiling in astonishment, and thinking how unlike it was the Swillingford papers, which were always a week, but generally a fortnight behindhand with information. ‘Splendid run with Mr Puffington’s hounds,’ read he again, wondering who had done it: Bardolph, the innkeeper; Allsop, the cabinet-maker; Tuggins, the doctor, were all out; so was Weatherhog, the butcher. Which of them could it be; Grimes, the editor, wasn’t there; indeed, he couldn’t ride, and the country was not adapted for a gig.
He then began to read it, and the further he got the more he was disgusted. At last, when he came to the ‘seasonal fox, which some thought was a bay one,’ his indignation knew no bounds, and crumpling the paper up in a heap he threw it from him in disgust. Just then in came Plummey, the butler. Plummey saw at a glance what had happened; for Mr Bragg, and the whips, and the grooms, and the helpers, and the feeder -- the whole hunting establishment -- were up in arms at the burlesque, and vowing vengeance against the author of it. Mr Spraggon, on seeing what a mess had been made of his labours, availed himself of the offer of a seat in Captain Guano’s dog-cart, and was clear of the premises; while Mr Sponge determined to profit by Spraggon’s absence, and lay the blame on him.
‘Oh, Plummey!’ exclaimed Mr Puffington, as his servant entered, ‘I’m deuced unwell -- quite knocked up, in short,’ clapping his hand on his forehead; adding, ‘I shall not be able to dine downstairs today.’
‘ ’Deed, sir,’ replied Mr Plummey, in a tone of commiseration -- ‘ ’deed, sir; sorry to hear that, sir.’
‘Are they all gone?’ asked Mr Puffington, dropping his boiled gooseberry-looking eyes upon the fine- flowered carpet.
‘All gone, sir -- all gone,’ replied Mr Plummey; ‘all except Mr Sponge.’
‘Oh, he’s still here!’ replied Mr Puffington, shuddering with disgust at the recollection of the newspaper run. ‘Is he going today?’ asked he.
‘No, sir -- I dare say not, sir,’ replied Mr Plummey. ‘His man -- his groom -- his -- whatever he calls him, expects they’ll be staying some time.’
‘The deuce!’ exclaimed Mr Puffington, whose hospitality, like Jawleyford’s was greater in imagination than in reality.
‘Shall I take these things away?’ asked Plummey, after a pause.
‘Couldn’t you manage to get him to go?’ asked Mr Puffington, still harping on his remaining guest.
‘Don’t know, sir. I could try, sir -- believe he’s bad to move, sir,’ replied Plummey, with a grin.
‘Is he really?’ replied Mr Puffington, alarmed lest Sponge should fasten himself upon him for good.
‘They say so,’ replied Mr Plummey, ‘but I don’t speak from any personal knowledge, for I know nothing of the man.’
‘Well,’ said Mr Puffington, amused at his servant’s exclusiveness, ‘I wish you would try to get rid of him, bow him out civilly, you know -- say I’m unwell -- very unwell -- deuced unwell -- ordered to keep quiet -- say it as if from yourself, you know -- it mustn’t appear as if it came from me, you know.’
‘In course not,’ replied Mr Plummey, ‘in course not;’ adding, ‘I’ll do my best, sir -- I’ll do my best.’ So saying, he took up the breakfast things and departed.
Mr Sponge regaling himself with a cigar in the stables and shrubberies, it was some time before Mr Plummey had an opportunity of trying his diplomacy upon him, it being contrary to Mr Plummey’s custom