Spraggon.
'Not my hounds!' screeched his lordship. 'Oh, ye barber's apprentice! Oh,
ye draper's assistant! Oh ye unmitigated Mahomedon! Sing out, Jack! sing
out! For Heaven's sake, sing out!' added he, throwing out his arms in
perfect despair.
'Not his lordship's hounds!' roared Jack, now rising in his stirrups and
brandishing his big whip. 'Not his lordship's hounds! Tell me _that_, when
they cost him five-and-twenty 'underd--two thousand five 'underd a year!
Oh, by Jingo, but that's a pretty go! If they're not his lordship's hounds,
I should like to know whose they are?' and thereupon Jack wiped the foam
from his mouth on his sleeve.
'Sir Harry's!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, again putting the horn to his lips,
and blowing another shrill blast.
'Sir Harry's!' screeched his lordship in disgust, for he hated the very
sound of his name--'Sir Harry's! Oh, you rusty-booted ruffian! Tell me that
to my very face!'
'Sir Harry's!' repeated Jack, again standing erect in his stirrups. 'What!
impeach his lordship's integrity--oh, by Jove, there's an end of
everything! Death before dishonour! Slugs in a saw-pit! Pistols and coffee
for two! Cock Pheasant at Weybridge, six o'clock i' the mornin'!' And Jack,
sinking exhausted on his saddle, again wiped the foam from his mouth.
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