Sponge did not
hunt on those terms; he was a front-rank or a 'nowhere' man, and
independently of catching hounds up being always a fatiguing and hazardous
speculation, especially on a fine-scenting day, the exertion would have
taken more out of his horse than would have been desirable for successful
display in a second run. Mr. Sponge, therefore, determined to go home.
As he sauntered along, musing on the mishaps of the chase, wondering how
Miss Jawleyford would look, and playing himself an occasional tune with his
spur against his stirrup, who should come trotting behind him but Mr.
Leather on the redoubtable chestnut? Mr. Sponge beckoned him alongside. The
horse looked blooming and bright; his eye was clear and cheerful, and there
was a sort of springy graceful action that looked like easy going.
One always fancies a horse most with another man on him. We see all his
good points without feeling his imperfections--his trippings, or startings,
or snatchings, or borings, or roughness of action, and Mr. Sponge
proceeded to make a silent estimate of Multum in Parvo's qualities as he
trotted gently along on the grassy side of the somewhat wide road.
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