'Indeed!--Jawleyford's, are you?' repeated Mr. Puffington. 'Good fellow,
Jawleyford--gentleman, Jawleyford. How long do you stay?'
'Why, I haven't made up my mind,' replied Sponge. 'Have no thoughts of
budging at present.'
'Ah, well--good quarters,' said Mr. Puffington, who now smelt a rat; 'good
quarters--nice girls--fine fortune--fine place, Jawleyford Court. Well,
book me for the next visit,' added he. 'I will,' said Sponge, 'and no
mistake. What do they call your shop?'
'Hanby House,' replied Mr. Puffington; 'Hanby House--anybody can tell you
where Hanby House is.'
'I'll not forget,' said Mr. Sponge, booking it in his mind, and eyeing his
victim.
'I'll show you a fine pack of hounds,' said Mr. Puffington; 'far finer
animals than those of old Scamperdale's--steady, true hunting hounds, that
won't go a yard without a scent--none of your jealous, flashy, frantic
devils, that will tear over half a township without one, and are always
looking out for "halloas" and assistance--'
Mr. Puffington was interrupted in the comparison he was about to draw
between his lordship's hounds and his, by arriving at the Bolsover
brick-fields, and seeing Jack and Blossomnose, horse in hand, running to
and fro, while sundry countrymen blobbed about in the clay-hole they had so
recently occupied.
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