'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.
Pages:
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308