We
should state that this unwonted journey was a desire to pay a visit to Mr.
Benjamin Buckram, the horse-dealer's farm at Scampley, distant some mile
and a half from where he was set down, a space that he now purposed
travelling on foot.
Mr. Benjamin Buckram was a small horse-dealer--small, at least, when he was
buying, though great when he was selling. It would do a youngster good to
see Ben filling the two capacities. He dealt in second hand, that is to
say, past mark of mouth horses; but on the present occasion, Mr. Sponge
sought his services in the capacity of a letter rather than a seller of
horses. Mr. Sponge wanted to job a couple of plausible-looking horses, with
the option of buying them, provided he (Mr. Sponge) could sell them for
more than he would have to give Mr. Buckram, exclusive of the hire. Mr.
Buckram's job price, we should say, was as near twelve pounds a month,
containing twenty-eight days, as he could screw, the hirer, of course,
keeping the animals.
Scampley is one of those pretty little suburban farms, peculiar to the
north and north-west side of London--farms varying from fifty to a hundred
acres of well-manured, gravelly soil; each farm with its picturesque little
buildings, consisting of small, honey-suckled, rose-entwined brick houses,
with small, flat, pan-tiled roofs, and lattice-windows; and, hard by, a
large hay-stack, three times the size of the house, or a desolate barn,
half as big as all the rest of the buildings.
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