Jog, to be sure, was pretty comfortable. He had got all he wanted--all he
went out a-hunting for; and as he hissed and jerked the old horse along, he
kept casting an eye at the contents of the apron, thinking what crowned, or
great man's head, the now rough, club-headed knobs should be fashioned to
represent; and indulged in speculations as to their prospective worth and
possible destination. He had not the slightest doubt that a thousand sticks
to each of his children would be as good as a couple of thousand pounds
a-piece; sometimes he thought more, but never less. Mr. Sponge, on the
other hand, brooded over the loss of the run; indulged in all sorts of
speculations as to the splendour of the affair; pictured the figure he
would have cut on the chestnut, and the price he might have got for him in
the field. Then he thought of the bucketing Leather would give him; the way
he would ram him at everything; how he would let him go with a slack rein
in the deep--very likely making him over-reach--nay, there was no saying
but he might stake him.
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