Jog then drove on a few paces, and turned up a lane to the left, whose
finger-post directed the road 'to Tollarton.' He seemed less disconcerted
than Sponge, who kept inwardly anathematizing, not only 'Obin and Ichard,'
but 'Diddle, diddle, doubt'--'Bah, bah, black sheep'--the whole tribe of
nursery ballads, in short.
The fact was, Jog wanted to be into Hackberry Dean, which was full of fine,
straight hollies, fit either for gibbeys or whip-sticks, and the hounds
being there gave him the entree. It was for helping himself there, without
this excuse, that he had been 'county-courted,' and he did not care to
renew his acquaintance with the judge. He now whipped and jagged the old
nag, as if intent on catching the hounds. Mr. Sponge liberated his whip
from the apron-straps, and lent a hand when Jog began to flag. So they
rattled and jingled away at an amended pace. Still it seemed to Mr. Sponge
as if they would never get there. Having passed through Tollarton, and
cleared the village of Stewley, Mr. Sponge strained his eyes in every
direction where there was a bit of wood, in hopes of seeing something of
the hounds.
Pages:
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681