'Well,' said Sponge to Spraggon, between the whiffs of a cigar, as they
rode together; 'it wasn't so bad, was it?'
'Bad!--no,' squinted Jack, 'devilish good--for Puff, at least,' adding, 'I
question he's had a better this season.'
'Well, we are in luck,' observed Tom Washball, riding up and joining them;'
we are in luck to have a satisfactory thing with you great connoisseurs
out.'
'A pretty thing enough,' replied Jack, 'pretty thing enough.'
'Oh, I don't mean to say it's equal to many we've had this season,' replied
Washball; 'nothing like the Boughton Hill day, nor yet the Hembury Forest
one; but still, considering the meet and the state of the country--'
'Hout! the country's good enough,' growled Jack, who hated Washball;
adding, 'a good fox makes any country good'; with which observation he
sidled up to Sponge, leaving Washball in the middle of the road.
'That reminds me,' said Jack, _sotto voce_ to Sponge, 'that the crittur
wants his run puffed, and he thinks you can do it.'
'Me!' exclaimed Sponge, 'what's put that in his head?'
'Why, you see,' exclaimed Jack, 'the first time you came out with our
hounds at Dundleton Tower, you'll remember--or rather, the first time we
saw you, when your horse ran away with you--somebody, Fyle, I think it
was, said you were a literary cove; and Puff, catchin' at the idea, has
never been able to get rid of it since: and the fact is, he'd like to be
flattered--he'd be uncommonly pleased if you were to "soft sawder" him
handsomely.
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