Mr. Sponge was quickly on the platform,
seeing to the detachment of his horse-box.
Just as the cavalry was about got into marching order, up rode John Watson,
a ragamuffin-looking gamekeeper, in a green plush coat, with a very
tarnished laced hat, mounted on a very shaggy white pony, whose hide seemed
quite impervious to the visitations of a heavily-knotted dogwhip, with
which he kept saluting his shoulders and sides.
'Please, sir,' said he, riding up to Mr. Sponge, with a touch of the old
hat, 'I've got you a capital three-stall stable at the Railway Tavern,
here,' pointing to a newly built brick house standing on the rising ground.
'Oh! but I'm going to Jawleyford Court,' responded our friend, thinking the
man was the 'tout' of the tavern.
'Mr. Jawleyford don't take in horses, sir,' rejoined the man, with another
touch of the hat.
'He'll take in _mine_,' observed Mr. Sponge, with an air of authority.
'Oh, I beg pardon, sir,' replied the keeper, thinking he had made a
mistake; 'it was Mr. Sponge whose horses I had to bespeak stalls for,'
touching his hat profusely as he spoke.
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