Mr. Sponge's Sporting Tour Part 56

'Saw it, sir--saw it in the letter-bag going to the post.'

'Indeed!' replied Mr. Puffington.

'Mr. Spraggon and he did it after they came in from hunting.'

'I thought as much,' replied Mr. Puffington, in disgust.

Mr. Plummey then related how unsuccessful had been his attempts to get rid of the now most unwelcome guest. Mr. Puffington listened with attention, determined to get rid of him somehow or other. Plummey was instructed to ply Sponge well with hints, all of which, however, Mr. Sponge skilfully parried. So, at last, Mr. Puffington scrawled a miserable-looking note, explaining how very ill he was, how he regretted being deprived of Mr.

Sponge's agreeable society, but hoping that it would suit Mr. Sponge to return as soon as he was better and pay the remainder of his visit--a pretty intelligible notice to quit, and one which even the cool Mr. Sponge was rather at a loss how to parry.

He did not like the aspect of affairs. In addition to having to spend the evening by himself, the cook sent him a very moderate dinner, smoked soup, sodden fish, scraggy cutlets, and sour pudding. Mr. Plummey, too, seemed to have put all the company bottle-ends together for him. This would not do.

If Sponge could have satisfied himself that his host would not be better in a day or two, he would have thought seriously of leaving; but as he could not bring himself to think that he would not, and, moreover, had no place to go to, had it not been for the concluding portion of Mr. Puffington's note, he would have made an effort to stay. That, however, put it rather out of his power, especially as it was done so politely, and hinted at a renewal of the visit. Mr. Sponge spent the evening in cogitating what he should do--thinking what sportsmen had held out the hand of good-fellows.h.i.+p, and hinted at hoping to have the pleasure of seeing him.

Fyle, Fossick, Blossomnose, Capon, Dribble, Hook, and others, were all run through his mind, without his thinking it prudent to attempt to fix a volunteer visit upon any of them. Many people he knew could pen polite excuses, who yet could not hit them off at the moment, especially in that great arena of hospitality--the hunting-field. He went to bed very much perplexed.

CHAPTER XLIV

WANTED--A RICH G.o.d-PAPA!

'When one door shuts another opens,' say the saucy servants; and fortune was equally favourable to our friend Mr. Sponge. Though he could not think of any one to whom he could volunteer a visit. Dame Fortune provided him with an overture from a party who wanted him! But we will introduce his new host, or rather victim.

People hunt from various motives--some for the love of the thing--some for show--some for fas.h.i.+on--some for health--some for appet.i.tes--some for coffee-housing--some to say they have hunted--some because others hunt.

Mr. Jogglebury Crowdey did not hunt from any of these motives, and it would puzzle a conjurer to make out why he hunted; indeed, the members of the different hunts he patronized--for he was one of the run-about, non-subscribing sort--were long in finding out. It was observed that he generally affected countries abounding in large woods, such as Stretchaway Forest, Hazelbury Chase, and Oakington Banks, into which he would dive with the greatest avidity. At first people thought he was a very keen hand, anxious to see a fox handsomely found, if he could not see him handsomely finished, against which latter luxury his figure and activity, or want of activity, were somewhat opposed. Indeed, when we say that he went by the name of the Woolpack, our readers will be able to imagine the style of man he was: long-headed, short-necked, large-girthed, dumpling-legged little fellow, who, like most fat men, made himself dangerous by compressing a most unreasonable stomach into a circ.u.mscribed coat, each particular b.u.t.ton of which looked as if it was ready to burst off, and knock out the eye of any one who might have the temerity to ride alongside of him. He was a puffy, wheezy, sententious little fellow, who accompanied his parables with a snort into a large finely plaited s.h.i.+rt-frill, reaching nearly up to his nose. His hunting-costume consisted of a black coat and waistcoat, with white moleskin breeches, much cracked and darned about the knees and other parts, as nether garments made of that treacherous stuff often are. His shapeless tops, made regardless of the refinements of 'right and left,'

dangled at his horse's sides like a couple of stable-buckets; and he carried his heavy iron hammer-headed whip over his shoulder like a flail.

But we are drawing his portrait instead of saying why he hunted. Well, then, having married Mrs. Springwheat's sister, who was always boasting to Mrs. Crowdey what a loving, doting husband Springey was after hunting, Mrs.

Crowdey had induced Crowdey to try his hand, and though soon satisfied that he hadn't the slightest taste for the sport, but being a great man for what he called gibbey-sticks, he hunted for the purpose of finding them. As we said before, he generally appeared at large woodlands, into which he would ride with the hounds, plunging through the stiffest clay, and forcing his way through the strongest thickets, making observations all the while of the hazels, and the hollies, and the blackthorns, and, we are sorry to say, sometimes of the young oaks and ashes, that he thought would fas.h.i.+on into curious-handled walking-sticks; and these he would return for at a future day, getting them with as large clubs as possible, which he would cut into the heads of beasts, or birds, or fishes, or men. At the time of which we are writing, he had acc.u.mulated a vast quant.i.ty--thousands; the garret at the top of his house was quite full, so were most of the closets, while the rafters in the kitchen, and cellars, and out-houses, were crowded with others in a state of _deshabille_. He calculated his stock at immense worth, we don't know how many thousand pounds; and as he cut, and puffed, and wheezed, and modelled, with a volume of Buffon, or the picture of some eminent man before him, he chuckled, and thought how well he was providing for his family. He had been at it so long, and argued so stoutly, that Mrs.

Jogglebury Crowdey, if not quite convinced of the accuracy of his calculations, nevertheless thought it well to encourage his hunting predilections, inasmuch as it brought him in contact with people he would not otherwise meet, who, she thought, might possibly be useful to their children. Accordingly, she got him his breakfast betimes on hunting-mornings, charged his pockets with currant-buns, and saw to the mending of his moleskins when he came home, after any of those casualties that occur as well in the chase as in gibbey-stick hunting.

A stranger being a marked man in a rural country, Mr. Sponge excited more curiosity in Mr. Jogglebury Crowdey's mind than Mr. Jogglebury Crowdey did in Mr. Sponge's. In truth, Jogglebury was one of those unsportsmanlike beings, that a regular fox-hunter would think it waste of words to inquire about, and if Mr. Sponge saw him, he did not recollect him; while, on the other hand, Mr. Jogglebury Crowdey went home very full of our friend. Now, Mrs. Jogglebury Crowdey was a fine, bustling, managing woman, with a large family, for whom she exerted all her energies to procure desirable G.o.d-papas and mammas; and, no sooner did she hear of this newcomer, than she longed to appropriate him for G.o.d-papa to their youngest son.

'Jog, my dear,' said she, to her spouse, as they sat at tea; 'it would be well to look after him.'

'What for, my dear?' asked Jog, who was staring a stick, with a half-finished head of Lord Brougham for a handle, out of countenance.

'What for, Jog? Why, can't you guess?'

'No,' replied Jog doggedly.

'No!' e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed his spouse. 'Why, Jog, you certainly are the stupidest man in existence.'

'Not necessarily!' replied Jog, with a jerk of his head and a puff into his s.h.i.+rt-frill that set it all in a flutter.

'Not necessarily!' replied Mrs. Jogglebury, who was what they call a 'spirited woman,' in the same rising tone as before. 'Not necessarily! but I say necessarily--yes, necessarily. Do you hear me, Mr. Jogglebury?'

'I hear you,' replied Jogglebury scornfully, with another jerk, and another puff into the frill.

The two then sat silent for some minutes, Jogglebury still contemplating the progressing head of Lord Brougham, and recalling the eye and features that some five-and-twenty years before had nearly withered him in a breach of promise action, 'Smiler _v_. Jogglebury,'[3] that being our friend's name before his uncle Crowdey left him his property.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Mrs. Jogglebury having an object in view, and knowing that, though Jogglebury might lead, he would not drive, availed herself of the lull to trim her sail, to try and catch him on the other tack.

'Well, Mr. Jogglebury Crowdey,' said she, in a pa.s.sive tone of regret, 'I certainly thought however indifferent you might be to me' (and here she applied her handkerchief--rather a coa.r.s.e one--to her eyes) 'that still you had some regard for the interests of your (sob) children'; and here the waterfalls of her beady black eyes went off in a gush.

'Well, my dear,' replied Jogglebury, softened, 'I'm (puff) sure I'm (wheeze) anxious for my (puff) children. You don't s'pose if I wasn't (puff), I'd (wheeze) labour as I (puff--wheeze) do to leave them fortins?'--alluding to his exertions in the gibbey-stick line.

'Oh, Jog, I dare say you're very good and very industrious,' sobbed Mrs.

Jogglebury, 'but I sometimes (sob) think that you might apply your (sob) energies to a better (sob) purpose.'

'Indeed, my dear (puff), I don't see that (wheeze),' replied Jogglebury, mildly.

'Why, now, if you were to try and get this rich Mr. Sponge for a G.o.d-papa for Gustavus James,' continued she, drying her eyes as she came to the point, '_that_, I should say, would be worthy of you.'

'But, my (puff) dear,' replied Jogglebury, 'I don't know Mr. (wheeze) Sponge, to begin with.'

'That's nothing,' replied Mrs. Jogglebury; 'he's a stranger, and you should call upon him.'

Mr. Jogglebury sat silent, still staring at Lord Brougham, thinking how he pitched into him, and how sick he was when the jury, without retiring from the box, gave five hundred pounds damages against him.

'He's a fox-hunter, too,' continued his wife; 'and you ought to be civil to him.'

'Well, but, my (puff) dear, he's as likely to (wheeze) these fifty years as any (puff, wheeze) man I ever looked at,' replied Jogglebury.

'Oh, nonsense,' replied Mrs. Jogglebury; 'there's no saying when a fox-hunter may break his neck. My word! but Mrs. Slooman tells me pretty stories of Sloo's doings with the harriers--jumping over hurdles, and everything that comes in the way, and galloping along the stony lanes as if the wind was a snail compared to his horse. I tell you. Jog, you should call on this gentleman--'

'Well,' replied Mr. Jogglebury.

'And ask him to come and stay here,' continued Mrs. Jogglebury.

'Perhaps he mightn't like it (puff),' replied Jogglebury. 'I don't know that we could (puff) entertain him as he's (wheeze) accustomed to be,'

added he.

'Oh, nonsense,' replied Mrs. Jogglebury; 'we can entertain him well enough.

You always say fox-hunters are not ceremonious. I tell you what, Jog, you don't think half enough of yourself. You are far too easily set aside. My word! but I know some people who would give themselves pretty airs if their husband was chairman of a board of guardians, and trustee of I don't know how many of Her Majesty's turnpike roads,' Mrs. Jog here thinking of her sister Mrs. Springwheat, who, she used to say, had married a mere farmer.

'I tell you, Jog, you're far too humble, you don't think half enough of yourself.'

'Well, but, my (puff) dear, you don't (puff) consider that all people ain't (puff) fond of (wheeze) children,' observed Jogglebury, after a pause.

'Indeed, I've (puff) observed that some (wheeze) don't like them.'

'Oh, but those will be nasty little brats, like Mrs. James Wakenshaw's, or Mrs. Tom Cheek's. But such children as ours! such charmers! such delights!

there isn't a man in the county, from the Lord-Lieutenant downwards, who wouldn't be proud--who wouldn't think it a compliment--to be asked to be G.o.d-papa to such children. I tell you what, Mr. Jogglebury Crowdey, it would be far better to get them rich G.o.d-papas and G.o.d-mammas than to leave them a whole house full of sticks.'

'Well, but, my (puff) dear, the (wheeze) sticks will prove very (wheeze) hereafter,' replied Jogglebury, bridling up at the imputation on his hobby.

'I _hope_ so,' replied Mrs. Jogglebury, in a tone of incredulity.