Leather heard the malt liquor was good and wanted
to taste it.
'Take on the brown, then,' said Mr. Sponge, quite pompously;' and tell
Bartholomew to have the hack at the door at ten--or say a quarter to. Tell
him, I'll lick him for every minute he's late; and, mind, don't let old
Rory O'More here know,' meaning our friend Jog, 'or he may take a fancy to
go, and we shall never get there,' alluding to their former excursion.
'No, no,' replied Mr. Leather, leaving the room.
Mr. Sponge then arrayed himself in his hunting costume--scarlet coat, green
tie, blue vest, gosling-coloured cords, and brown tops; and was greeted
with a round of applause from the little Jogs as he entered the
breakfast-room. Gustavus James would handle him; and, considering that his
paws were all over raspberry jam, our friend would as soon have dispensed
with his attentions. Mrs. Jog was all smiles, and Jog all scowls.
A little after ten our friend, cigar in mouth, was in the saddle. Mrs. Jog,
with Gustavus James in her arms, and all the children clustering about,
stood in the passage to see him start, and watch the capers and caprioles
of the piebald, as he ambled down the avenue.
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