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Sponge's countenance. If it had not been
that Jog wanted to see that Leather did not play any tricks with his horse,
he would not have gone a yard to please Mr. Sponge. Jog might, however,
have been easy on that score, for Leather had just buckled the curb-rein of
the horse's bridle round a tree in the plantations where they found, and
the animal, being used to this sort of work, had fallen-to quite
contentedly upon the grass within reach.
Bilkington Pike now appeared in view, and Jog drew in as he spied it. He
knew the damage: sixpence for carriages, and he doubted that Sponge would
pay it.
'It's no use going any (wheeze) farther,' observed he, drawing up into a
walk, as he eyed the red-brick gable end of the toll-house, and the
formidable white gate across the road.
Tom Coppers had heard the hounds, and, knowing the hurry sportsmen are
often in, had taken the precaution to lock the gate.
'Just a _leetle_ farther!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge soothingly, whose anxiety
in looking after the hounds had prevented his seeing this formidable
impediment.


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