In fact, Puddingpote Bower was an exceedingly
bad hunting quarter, as things turned out. Sir Harry Scattercash, having
had the run described in our two preceding chapters, and having just
imported a few of the 'sock-and-buskin' sort from town, was not likely to
be going out again for a time; while Mr. Puffington, finding where Mr.
Sponge had taken refuge, determined not to meet within reach of Puddingpote
Bower, if he could possibly help it; and Lord Scamperdale was almost always
beyond distance, unless horse and rider lay out over-night--a proceeding
always deprecated by prudent sportsmen. Mr. Sponge, therefore, got more of
Mr. Jogglebury Crowdey's company than he wanted, and Mr. Crowdey got more
of Mr. Sponge's than he desired. In vain Jog took him up into his attics
and his closets, and his various holes and corners, and showed him his
enormous stock of sticks--some tied in sheaves, like corn; some put up more
sparingly; and others, again, wrapped in silver paper, with their valuable
heads enveloped in old gloves. Jog would untie the strings of these, and
placing the heads in the most favourable position before our friend, just
as an artist would a portrait, question him as to whom he thought they
were.
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