He wouldn't stand one to-day. What do
you ride?'
Downley.--'Oh, I've a hack, one of Screwman's, Perpetual Motion they call
him, because he never gets any rest. That's him, I believe, with the
lofty-actioned hind-legs,' added he, pointing to a weedy string-halty bay
passing below, high in bone and low in flesh.
'Who's o' the gaudy chestnut?' asked Caingey Thornton, who now appeared,
wiping his fat lips after his second glass of _eau de vie_.
'That's Mr. Sponge's,' replied Spareneck in a low tone, knowing how soon a
man catches his own name.
'A deuced fine horse he is, too,' observed Caingey, in a louder key;
adding, 'Sponge has the finest lot of horses of any man in England--in the
world, I may say.'
Mr. Sponge himself now rose from the breakfast table, and was speedily
followed by Mr. Waffles and the rest of the party, some bearing
sofa-pillows and cushions to place on the balustrades, to loll at their
ease, in imitation of the Coventry Club swells in Piccadilly. Then our
friends smoked their cigars, reviewed the cavalry, and criticised the
ladies who passed below in the flys on their way to the meet.
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