Evening came, and with it came Jog, laden, as usual, with an armful of
gibbeys, but the shades of night followed evening ere there was any tidings
of the sporting inmates of his house. At length, just as Jog was taking his
last stroll prior to going in for good, he espied a pair of vacillating
white breeches coming up the avenue with a clearly drunken man inside them.
Jog stood straining his eyes watching their movements, wondering whether
they would keep the saddle or come off--whenever the breeches seemed
irrevocably gone, they invariably recovered themselves with a jerk or a
lurch--Jog now saw it was Leather on the piebald, and though he had no
fancy for the man, he stood to let him come up, thinking to hear something
of Sponge. Leather in due time saw the great looming outline of our friend
and came staring and shaking his head, endeavouring to identify it. He
thought at first it was the Squire--next he thought it wasn't--then he was
sure it wasn't.
'Oh! it's you, old boy, is it?' at last exclaimed he, pulling up beside the
large holly against which our friend had placed himself, 'It's you, old
boy, is it?' repeated he, extending his right hand and nearly overbalancing
himself, adding as he recovered his equilibrium, 'I thought it was the old
Woolpack at first,' nodding his head towards the house.
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