THE GREAT RUN
Our hero having inveigled the brown under lee of an out-house as the field
moved along, was fortunate enough to achieve the saddle without disclosing
the secrets of the stable; and as he rejoined the throng in all the pride
of shape, action, and condition, even the top-sawyers, Fossick, Fyle,
Bliss, and others, admitted that Hercules was not a bad-like horse; while
the humbler-minded ones eyed Sponge with a mixture of awe and envy,
thinking what a fine trade literature must be to stand such a horse.
'Is your friend What's-his-name, a workman?' asked Lord Scamperdale,
nodding towards Sponge as he trotted Hercules gently past on the turf by
the side of the road along which they were riding.
'Oh no,' replied Jawleyford tartly. 'Oh no--gentleman, man of property--'
'I did not mean was he a mechanic,' explained his lordship drily, 'but a
workman; a good 'un across country, in fact.' His lordship working his arms
as if he was going to set-to himself.
'Oh, a first-rate man!--first-rate man!' replied Jawleyford; 'beat them all
at Laverick Wells.'
'I thought so,' observed his lordship; adding to himself, 'then Jack shall
take the conceit out of him.'
'Jack!' halloaed he over his shoulder to his friend, who was jogging a
little behind; 'Jack!' repeated he, 'that Mr. Something--'
'_Sponge_!' observed Jawleyford, with an emphasis.
'That Mr. Sponge,' continued his lordship, 'is a stranger in the country:
have the kindness to take _care_ of him. You know what I mean?'
'Just so,' replied Jack; 'I'll take care of him.'
'Most polite of your lordship, I'm sure,' said Jawleyford, with a low bow,
and laying his hand on his breast. 'I can assure you I shall never forget
the marked attention I have received from your lordship this day.'
'Thank you for nothing,' grunted his lordship to himself.
Bump, bump; trot, trot; jabber, jabber, on they went as before.
They had now got to the cover, Tickler Gorse, and ere the last horsemen had
reached the last angle of the long hill, Frostyface was rolling about on
foot in the luxuriant evergreen; now wholly visible, now all but overhead,
like a man buffeting among the waves of the sea. Save Frosty's cheery voice
encouraging the invisible pack to 'wind him!' and 'rout him out!' an
injunction that the shaking of the gorse showed they willingly obeyed, and
an occasional exclamation from Jawleyford, of 'Beautiful! beautiful!--never
saw better hounds!--can't be a finer pack!' not a sound disturbed the
stillness of the scene. The waggoners on the road stopped their wains, the
late noisy ploughmen leaned vacantly on their stilts, the turnip-pullers
stood erect in air, and the shepherds' boys deserted the bleating
flocks;--all was life and joy and liberty--'Liberty, equality, and
foxhunt-ity!'
'Yo--i--cks, wind him! Y--o--o--icks! rout him out!' went Frosty;
occasionally varying the entertainment with a loud crack of his heavy whip,
when he could get upon a piece of rising ground to clear the thong.
'Tally-ho!' screamed Jawleyford, hoisting the Bumperkin Yeomanry cap in the
air. 'Tally-ho!' repeated he, looking triumphantly round, as much as to
say, 'What a clever boy am I!'
'Hold your noise!' roared Jack, who was posted a little below. 'Don't you
see it's a hare?' added he, amidst the uproarious mirth of the company.
'I haven't your great staring specs on, or I should have seen he hadn't a
tail,' retorted Jawleyford, nettled at the tone in which Jack had addressed
him.
'Tail be--!' replied Jack, with a sneer; 'who but a tailor would call it a
tail?'
Just then a light low squeak of a whimper was heard in the thickest part of
the gorse, and Frostyface cheered the hound to the echo. 'Hoick to,
Pillager! H--o--o--ick!' screamed he, in a long-drawn note, that thrilled
through every frame, and set the horses a-capering.
Ere Frosty's prolonged screech was fairly finished, there was such an
outburst of melody, and such a shaking of the gorse-bushes, as plainly
showed there was no safety for Reynard in cover; and great was the bustle
and commotion among the horsemen. Mr. Fossick lowered his hat-string and
ran the fox's tooth through the buttonhole; Fyle drew his girths; Washball
took a long swig at his hunting-horn-shaped monkey; Major Mark and Mr.
Archer threw away their cigar ends; Mr. Bliss drew on his dogskin gloves;
Mr. Wake rolled the thong of his whip round the stick, to be better able to
encounter his puller; Mr. Sparks got a yokel to take up a link of his curb;
George Smith and Joe Smith looked at their watches; Sandy McGregor, the
factor, filled his great Scotch nose with Irish snuff, exclaiming, as he
dismissed the balance from his fingers by a knock against his thigh, 'Oh,
my mon, aw think this tod will gie us a ran!' while Blossomnose might be
seen stealing gently forward, on the far side of a thick fence, for the
double purpose of shirking Jawleyford and getting a good start.
In the midst of these and similar preparations for the fray, up went a
whip's cap at the low end of the cover; and a volley of 'Tallyhos' burst
from our friends, as the fox, whisking his white-tipped brush in the air,
was seen stealing away over the grassy hill beyond. What a commotion was
there! How pale some looked! How happy others!
'Sing out, Jack! for heaven's sake, sing out!' exclaimed Lord Scamperdale;
an enthusiastic sportsman, always as eager for a run as if he had never
seen one. 'Sing out, Jack; or, by Jove, they'll override 'em at starting!'
'HOLD HARD, gentlemen,' roared Jack, clapping spurs into his grey,
or rather, into his lordship's grey, dashing in front, and drawing the
horse across the road to stop the progression of the field. 'HOLD
HARD, _one minute_!' repeated Jack, standing erect in his stirrups,
and menacing them with his whip (a most formidable one). 'Whatever you do,
_pray_ let them get away! _Pray_ don't spoil your own sport! Pray remember
they're his lordship's hounds!--that they cost him five-and-twenty
under'd--two thousand five under'd a year! And where, let me ax, with wheat
down to nothing, would you get another, if he was to throw up?'
As Jack made this inquiry, he took a hurried glance at the now pouring-out
pack; and seeing they were safe away, he wiped the foam from his mouth on
his sleeve, dropped into his saddle, and, catching his horse short round by
the head, clapped spurs into his sides, and galloped away, exclaiming:
'Now, ye tinkers, we'll all start fair!'
Then there was such a scrimmage! such jostling and elbowing among the
jealous ones; such ramming and cramming among the eager ones; such
pardon-begging among the polite ones; such spurting of ponies, such
clambering of cart-horses. All were bent on going as far as they could--all
except Jawleyford, who sat curvetting and prancing in the patronizing sort
of way gentlemen do who encourage hounds for the sake of the manly spirit
the sport engenders, and the advantage hunting is of in promoting our
unrivalled breed of horses.
His lordship having slipped away, horn in hand, under pretence of blowing
the hounds out of cover, as soon as he set Jack at the field, had now got a
good start, and, horse well in hand, was sailing away in their wake.
'F-o-o-r-r-ard!' screamed Frostyface, coming up alongside of him, holding
his horse--a magnificent thoroughbred bay--well by the head, and settling
himself into his saddle as he went.
'F-o-r-rard!' screeched his lordship, thrusting his spectacles on to his
nose.
'Twang--twang--twang,' went the huntsman's deep-sounding horn.
'T'weet--t'weet--t'weet,' went his lordship's shriller one.
'In for a stinger, my lurd,' observed Jack, returning his horn to the case.
'Hope so,' replied his lordship, pocketing his.
They then flew the first fence together.
'F-o-r-r-ard!' screamed Jack in the air, as he saw the hounds packing well
together, and racing with a breast-high scent.
'F-o-r-rard!' screamed his lordship, who was a sort of echo to his
huntsman, just as Jack Spraggon was echo to his lordship.
'He's away for Gunnersby Craigs,' observed Jack, pointing that way, for
they were a good ten miles off.
'Hope so,' replied his lordship, for whom the distance could never be too
great, provided the pace corresponded.
'F-o-o-r-rard!' screamed Jack.
'F-o-r-rard!' screeched his lordship.
So they went flying and 'forrarding' together; none of the field--thanks to
Jack Spraggon--being able to overtake them.
'Y-o-o-nder he goes!' at last cried Frosty, taking off his cap as he viewed
the fox, some half-mile ahead, stealing away round the side of Newington
Hill.
'Tallyho!' screeched his lordship, riding with his flat hat in the air, by
way of exciting the striving field to still further exertion.
'He's a good 'un!' exclaimed Frosty, eyeing the fox's going.
'He is that!' replied his lordship, staring at him with all his might.
Then they rode on, and were presently rounding Newington Hill themselves,
the hounds packing well together, and carrying a famous head.
His lordship now looked to see what was going on behind.
Scrambleford Hill was far in the rear. Jawleyford and the boy in blue were
altogether lost in the distance. A quarter of a mile or so this way were a
couple of dots of horsemen, one on a white, the other on a dark
colour--most likely Jones, the keeper, and Farmer Stubble, on the foaly
mare. Then, a little nearer, was a man in a hedge, trying to coax his horse
after him, stopping the way of two boys in white trousers, whose ponies
looked like rats. Again, a little nearer, were some of the persevering
ones--men who still hold on in the forlorn hopes of a check--all
dark-coated, and mostly trousered. Then came the last of the red-coats--Tom
Washball, Charley Joyce, and Sam Sloman, riding well in the first flight of
second horsemen--his lordship's pad-groom, Mr. Fossick's man in drab with a
green collar, Mr. Wake's in blue, also a lad in scarlet and a flat hat,
with a second horse for the huntsman. Drawing still nearer came the
ruck--men in red, men in brown, men in livery, a farmer or two in fustian,
all mingled together; and a few hundred yards before these, and close upon
his lordship, were the _elite_ of the field--five men in scarlet and one in
black. Let us see who they are. By the powers, Mr. Sponge is first!--Sponge
sailing away at his ease, followed by Jack, who is staring at him through
his great lamps, longing to launch out at him, but as yet wanting an
excuse; Sponge having ridden with judgement--judgement, at least, in
everything except in having taken the lead of Jack. After Jack comes old
black-booted Blossomnose; and Messrs. Wake, Fossick, and Fyle, complete our
complement of five. They are all riding steadily and well; all very irate,
however, at the stranger for going before them, and ready to back Jack in
anything he may say or do.
On, on they go; the hounds still pressing forward, though not carrying
quite so good a head as before. In truth, they have run four miles in
twenty minutes; pretty good going anywhere except upon paper, where they
always go unnaturally fast. However, there they are, still pressing on,
though with considerably less music than before.
After rounding Newington Hill, they got into a wilder and worse sort of
country, among moorish, ill-cultivated land, with cold unwholesome-looking
fallows. The day, too, seemed changing for the worse; a heavy black cloud
hanging overhead. The hounds were at length brought to their noses.
His lordship, who had been riding all eyes, ears, and fears, foresaw the
probability of this; and pulling-to his horse, held up his hand, the usual
signal for Jack to 'sing out' and stop the field. Sponge saw the signal,
but, unfortunately, Hercules didn't; and tearing along with his head to the
ground, resolutely bore our friend not only past his lordship, but right on
to where the now stooping pack were barely feathering on the line.
Then Jack and his lordship sang out together.
'_Hold hard!_' screeched his lordship, in a dreadful state of excitement.
'HOLD HARD!' thundered Jack.
Sponge _was_ holding hard--hard enough to split the horse's jaws, but the
beast would go on, notwithstanding.
'By the powers, he's among 'em again!' shouted his lordship, as the
resolute beast, with his upturned head almost pulled round to Sponge's
knee, went star-gazing on like the blind man in Regent Street. 'Sing out,
Jack! sing out! for heaven's sake sing out,' shrieked his lordship,
shutting his eyes, as he added, 'or he'll kill every man jack of them.'
'NOW, SUR!' roared Jack, 'can't you steer that 'ere aggravatin'
quadruped of yours?'
'Oh, you pestilential son of a pontry-maid!' screeched his lordship, as
Brilliant ran yelping away from under Sponge's horse's feet. 'Sing out,
Jack! sing out!' gasped his lordship again.
'Oh, you scandalous, hypocritical, rusty-booted, numb-handed son of a
puffing corn-cutter, why don't you turn your attention to feeding hens,
cultivating cabbages, or making pantaloons for small folk, instead of
killing hounds in this wholesale way?' roared Jack; an inquiry that set him
foaming again.
'Oh, you unsightly, sanctified, idolatrous, Bagnigge-Wells coppersmith, you
think because I'm a lord, and can't swear or use coarse language, that you
may do what you like; rot you, sir, I'll present you with a testimonial!
I'll settle a hundred a year upon you if you'll quit the country. By the
powers, they're away again!' added his lordship, who, with one eye on
Sponge and the other on the pack, had been watching Frosty lifting them
over the bad scenting-ground, till, holding them on to a hedgerow beyond,
they struck the scent on good sound pasture, and went away at score, every
hound throwing his tongue, and filling the air with joyful melody. Away
they swept like a hurricane. 'F-o-o-rard!' was again the cry.
'Hang it, Jack,' exclaimed Lord Scamperdale, laying his hand on his
_double's_ shoulder, as they galloped alongside of each other, 'Hang it,
Jack, see if you can't sarve out this unrighteous, mahogany-booted,
rattle-snake. _Do_ if you die for it!--I'll bury your remainders
genteelly--patent coffin with brass nails, all to yourself--put Frosty and
all the fellows in black, and raise a white marble monument to your memory,
declaring you were the most spotless virtuous man under the sun.'
'Let me off dining with Jaw, and I'll do my best,' replied Jack.
'Done!' screamed his lordship, flourishing his right arm in the air, as he
flew over a great stone wall.
A good many of the horses and sportsmen too had had enough before the
hounds checked; and the quick way Frosty lifted them and hit off the scent,
did not give them much time to recruit. Many of them now sat hat in hand,
mopping, and puffing, and turning their red perspiring faces to the wind.
'Poough,' gasped one, as if he was going to be sick; 'Puff,' went another;
'Oh! but it's 'ot!' exclaimed a third, pulling off his limp neckcloth;
'Wonder if there's any ale hereabouts,' cried a fourth; 'Terrible run!'
observed a fifth; 'Ten miles at least,' gasped another. Meanwhile the
hounds went streaming on; and it is wonderful how soon those who don't
follow are left hopelessly in the rear.
Of the few that did follow, Mr. Sponge, however, was one. Nothing daunted
by the compliments that had been paid him, he got Hercules well in hand;
and the horse dropping again on the bit, resumed his place in front, going
as strong and steadily as ever. Thus he went, throwing the mud in the
faces of those behind, regardless of the oaths and imprecations that
followed; Sponge knowing full well they would do the same by him if they
could.
'All jealousy,' said Sponge, spurring his horse. 'Never saw such a jealous
set of dogs in my life.'
An accommodating lane soon presented itself, along which they all pounded,
with the hounds running parallel through the enclosures on the left; Sponge
sending such volleys of pebbles and mud in his rear as made it advisable to
keep a good way behind him. The line was now apparently for Firlingham
Woods; but on nearing the thatched cottage on Gasper Heath, the fox, most
likely being headed, had turned short to the right; and the chase now lay
over Sheeplow Water meadows, and so on to Bolsover brick-fields, when the
pack again changed from hunting to racing, and the pace for a time was
severe. His lordship having got his second horse at the turn, was ready for
the tussle, and plied away vigorously, riding, as usual, with all his
heart, with all his mind, with all his soul, and with all his strength;
while Jack, still on the grey, came plodding diligently along in the rear,
saving his horse as much as he could. His lordship charged a stiff flight
of rails in the brick-fields; while Jack, thinking to save his, rode at a
weak place in the fence, a little higher up, and in an instant was soused
overhead in a clay-hole.
'Duck under, Jack! duck under!' screamed his lordship, as Jack's head rose
to the surface. 'Duck under! you'll have it full directly!' added he,
eyeing Sponge and the rest coming up.
Sponge, however, saw the splash, and turning a little lower down, landed
safe on sound ground; while poor Blossomnose, who was next, went
floundering overhead also. But the pace was too good to stop to fish them
out.
'Dash it,' said Sponge, looking at them splashing about, 'but that was a
near go for me!'
Jack being thus disposed of, Sponge, with increased confidence, rose in his
stirrups, easing the redoubtable Hercules; and patting him on the shoulder,
at the same time that he gave him the gentlest possible touch of the spur,
exclaimed, 'By the powers, we'll show these old Flat Hats the trick!' He
then commenced humming:
Mister Sponge, the raspers taking,
Sets the junkers' nerves a shaking;
and riding cheerfully on, he at length found himself on the confines of a
wild rough-looking moor, with an undulating range of hills in the distance.
Frostyface and Lord Scamperdale here for the first time diverged from the
line the hounds were running, and made for the neck of a smooth, flat,
rather inviting-looking piece of ground, instead of crossing it, Sponge,
thinking to get a niche, rode to it; and the 'deeper and deeper still' sort
of flounder his horse made soon let him know that he was in a bog. The
impetuous Hercules rushed and reared onwards as if to clear the wide
expanse; and alighting still lower, shot Sponge right overhead in the
middle.
[Illustration]
'_That's_ cooked _your_ goose!' exclaimed his lordship, eyeing Sponge and
his horse floundering about in the black porridge-like mess.
'Catch my horse!' hallooed Sponge to the first whip, who came galloping up
as Hercules was breasting his way out again.
'Catch him yourself,' grunted the man, galloping on.
A peat-cutter, more humane, received the horse as he emerged from the black
sea, exclaiming, as the now-piebald Sponge came lobbing after on foot, 'A,
sir! but ye should niver set tee to ride through sic a place as that!'
Sponge, having generously rewarded the man with a fourpenny piece, for
catching his horse and scraping the thick of the mud off him, again
mounted, and cantered round the point he should at first have gone; but his
chance was out--the farther he went, the farther he was left behind; till
at last, pulling up, he stood watching the diminishing pack, rolling like
marbles over the top of Rotherjade Hill, followed by his lordship hugging
his horse round the neck as he went, and the huntsman and whips leading and
driving theirs up before them.
'Nasty jealous old beggar!' said Sponge, eyeing his lessening lordship
disappearing over the hill too. Sponge then performed the sickening
ceremony of turning away from hounds running; not but that he might have
plodded on on the line, and perhaps seen or heard what became of the fox,
but Sponge didn't hunt on those terms. Like a good many other gentlemen, he
would be first, or nowhere.
If it was any consolation to him, he had plenty of companions in
misfortune. The line was dotted with horsemen back to the brick-fields. The
first person he overtook wending his way home in the discontented, moody
humour of a thrown-out man, was Mr. Puffington master of the Hanby hounds;
at whose appearance at the meet we expressed our surprise.
Neighbouring masters of hounds are often more or less jealous of each
other. No man in the master-of-hound world is too insignificant for
censure. Lord Scamperdale _was_ an undoubted sportsman; while poor Mr.
Puffington thought of nothing but how to be thought one. Hearing the
mistaken rumour that a great writer was down, he thought that his chance of
immortality was arrived; and, ordering his best horse, and putting on his
best apparel, had braved the jibes and sneers of Jack and his lordship for
the purpose of scraping acquaintance with the stranger. In that he had been
foiled: there was no time at the meet to get introduced, neither could he
get jostled beside Sponge in going down to the cover; while the quick find,
the quick get away, followed by the quick thing we have described, were
equally unfavourable to the undertaking. Nevertheless, Mr. Puffington had
held on beyond the brick-fields; and had he but persevered a little
farther, he would have had the satisfaction of helping Mr. Sponge out of
the bog.
Sponge now, seeing a red coat a little before, trotted on, and quickly
overtook a fine nippy, satin-stocked, dandified looking gentleman, with
marvellously smart leathers and boots--a great contrast to the large,
roomy, bargemanlike costume of the members of the Flat Hat Hunt.
'You're not hurt, I hope?' exclaimed Mr. Puffington, with well-feigned
anxiety, as he looked at Mr. Sponge's black-daubed clothes.
'Oh no!' replied Sponge. 'Oh no!--fell soft--fell soft. More dirt, less
hurt--more dirt, less hurt.'
'Why, you've been in a bog!' exclaimed Mr. Puffington, eyeing the
much-stained Hercules.
'Almost over head,' replied Sponge. 'Scamperdale saw me going, and hadn't
the grace to halloa.'
'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 farther 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. 'I will,' said Sponge, 'and no
mistake. What do they call your shop?'
'Hanby House,' replied Mr. Puffington; 'Hanby House--anybody can tell you
where Hanby House is.'
'I'll not forget,' said Mr. Sponge, booking it in his mind, and eyeing his
victim.
'I'll show you a fine pack of hounds,' said Mr. Puffington; 'far finer
animals than those of old Scamperdale's--steady, true hunting hounds, that
won't go a yard without a scent--none of your jealous, flashy, frantic
devils, that will tear over half a township without one, and are always
looking out for "halloas" and assistance--'
Mr. Puffington was interrupted in the comparison he was about to draw
between his lordship's hounds and his, by arriving at the Bolsover
brick-fields, and seeing Jack and Blossomnose, horse in hand, running to
and fro, while sundry countrymen blobbed about in the clay-hole they had so
recently occupied. Tom Washball, Mr. Wake, Mr. Fyle, Mr. Fossick, and
several dark-coated horsemen and boys were congregated around. Jack had
lost his spectacles, and Blossomnose his whip, and the countrymen were
diving for them.
'Not hurt, I hope?' said Mr. Puffington, in the most dandified tone of
indifference, as he rode up to where Jack and Blossomnose were churning the
water in their boots, stamping up and down, trying to get themselves warm.
'Hurt be hanged!' replied Jack, who had a frightful squint, that turned his
eyes inside out when he was in a passion: 'hurt be hanged!' said he; 'might
have been drownded, for anything you'd have cared.'
'I should have been sorry for that,' replied Mr. Puffington, adding, 'the
Flat Hat Hunt could ill afford to lose so useful and ornamental a member.'
'I don't know what the Flat Hat Hunt can afford to lose,' spluttered Jack,
who hadn't got all the clay out of his mouth; 'but I know they can afford
to do without the company of certain gentlemen who shall be nameless,' said
he, looking at Sponge and Puffington as he thought, but in reality showing
nothing but the whites of his eyes. 'I told you so,' said Puffington,
jerking his head towards Jack, as Sponge and he turned their horses' heads
to ride away; 'I told you so,' repeated he; 'that's a specimen of their
style'; adding, 'they are the greatest set of ruffians under the sun.'
The new acquaintances then jogged on together as far as the cross-roads at
Stewley, when Puffington, having bound Sponge in his own recognizance to
come to him when he left Jawleyford Court, pointed him out his way, and
with a most hearty shake of the hands the new-made friends parted.