Mr. Sponge's Sporting Tour

  CHAPTER XLIII

  ANOTHER SICK HOST

  letter W]

  When Mr. Puffington read Messrs. Sponge and Spraggon's account of the runwith his hounds, in the Swillingford paper, he was perfectly horrified;words cannot describe the disgust that he felt. It came upon him quite bysurprise, for he expected to be immortalized in some paper or work ofgeneral circulation, in which the Lords Loosefish, Sir Toms, and Sir Harrysof former days might recognize the spirited doings of their early friend.He wanted the superiority of his establishment, the excellence of hishorses, the stoutness of his hounds, and the polish of his field,proclaimed, with perhaps a quiet cut at the Flat-Hat gentry; instead ofwhich he had a mixed medley sort of a mess, whose humdrum monotony was onlyrelieved by the absurdities and errors with which it was crammed. At first,Mr. Puffington could not make out what it meant, whether it was a hoax forthe purpose of turning run-writing into ridicule, or it had sufferedmutilation at the hands of the printer. Calling a good scent an exquisiteperfume looked suspicious of a hoax, but then seasonal fox for seasonedfox, scorning to cry for scoring to cry, bay fox for bag fox, grunting forhunting, thrashing for trashing, rests for casts, and other absurdities,looked more like accident than design.

  These are the sort of errors that non-sporting compositors might easilymake, one term being as much like English to them as the other, thoughamazingly different to the eye or the ear of a sportsman. Mr. Puffingtonwas thoroughly disgusted. He was sick of hounds and horses, and Bragg, andhay and corn, and kennels and meal, and saddles and bridles; and now, thisabsurdity seemed to cap the whole thing. He was ill-prepared for such ashock. The exertion of successive dinner-giving--above all, of bachelordinner-giving--and that too in the country, where men sit, talk, talk,talking, sip, sip, sipping, and 'just another bottle-ing'; more, webelieve, from want of something else to do than from any naturalinclination to exceed; the exertion, we say, of such parties had completelyunstrung our fat friend, and ill-prepared his nerves for such a shock.Being a great man for his little comforts, he always breakfasted in hisdressing-room, which he had fitted up in the most luxurious style, andwhere he had his newspapers (most carefully ironed out) laid with hisletters against he came in. It was late on the morning following our lastchapter ere he thought he had got rid of as much of his winey headache asfitful sleep would carry off, and enveloped himself in a blue andyellow-flowered silk dressing-gown and Turkish slippers. He looked at hisletters, and knowing their outsides, left them for future perusal, andsousing himself into the depths of a many-cushioned easy-chair, proceededto spell his _Morning Post_--Tattersall's advertisements--'Grosjean'sPale-tots'--'Mr. Albert Smith'--'Coals, best Stewart Hetton orLambton's'--'Police Intelligence,' and such other light reading as does notrequire any great effort to connect or comprehend.

  Then came his breakfast, for which he had very little appetite, though herelished his coffee, and also an anchovy. While dawdling over these, heheard sundry wheels grinding about below the window, and the bumping andthumping of boxes, indicative of 'goings away,' for which he couldn't sayhe felt sorry. He couldn't even be at the trouble of getting up and goingto the window to see who it was that was off, so weary and head-achy washe. He rolled and lolled in his chair, now taking a sip of coffee, now abite of anchovy toast, now considering whether he durst venture on an egg,and again having recourse to the _Post_. At last, having exhausted all thelight reading in it, and scanned through the list of hunting appointments,he took up the Swillingford paper to see that they had got his 'meets'right for the next week. How astonished he was to find the previous day'srun staring him in the face, headed 'SPLENDID RUN WITH MR. PUFFINGTON'SHOUNDS,' in the imposing type here displayed. 'Well, that's quick work,however,' said he, casting his eyes up to the ceiling in astonishment, andthinking how unlike it was the Swillingford papers, which were always aweek, but generally a fortnight behindhand with information. 'Splendid runwith Mr. Puffington's hounds,' read he again, wondering who had done it:Bardolph, the innkeeper; Allsop, the cabinet-maker; Tuggins, the doctor,were all out; so was Weatherhog, the butcher. Which of them could it be?Grimes, the editor, wasn't there; indeed, he couldn't ride, and the countrywas not adapted for a gig.

  He then began to read it, and the further he got the more he was disgusted.At last, when he came to the 'seasonal fox, which some thought was a bayone,' his indignation knew no bounds, and crumpling the paper up in a heap,he threw it from him in disgust. Just then in came Plummey, the butler.Plummey saw at a glance what had happened; for Mr. Bragg, and the whips,and the grooms, and the helpers, and the feeder--the whole huntingestablishment--were up in arms at the burlesque, and vowing vengeanceagainst the author of it. Mr. Spraggon, on seeing what a mess had been madeof his labours, availed himself of the offer of a seat in Captain Guano'sdog-cart, and was clear of the premises; while Mr. Sponge determined toprofit by Spraggon's absence, and lay the blame on him.

  'Oh, Plummey!' exclaimed Mr. Puffington, as his servant entered, 'I'mdeuced unwell--quite knocked up, in short,' clapping his hand on hisforehead, adding, 'I shall not be able to dine downstairs to-day.'

  ''Deed, sir,' replied Mr. Plummey, in a tone of commiseration--''deed, sir;sorry to hear that, sir.'

  'Are they all gone?' asked Mr. Puffington, dropping hisboiled-gooseberry-looking eyes upon the fine-flowered carpet.

  'All gone, sir--all gone,' replied Mr. Plummey; 'all except Mr. Sponge.'

  'Oh, he's still here!' replied Mr. Puffington, shuddering with disgust atthe recollection of the newspaper run. 'Is he going to-day?' asked he.

  'No, sir--I dare say not, sir,' replied Mr. Plummey. 'His man--hisgroom--his--whatever he calls him, expects they'll be staying some time.'

  'The deuce!' exclaimed Mr. Puffington, whose hospitality, likeJawleyford's, was greater in imagination than in reality.

  'Shall I take these things away?' asked Plummey, after a pause.

  'Couldn't you manage to get him to go?' asked Mr. Puffington, still harpingon his remaining guest.

  'Don't know, sir. I could try, sir--believe he's bad to move, sir,' repliedPlummey, with a grin.

  'Is he really?' replied Mr. Puffington, alarmed lest Sponge should fastenhimself upon him for good.

  'They say so,' replied Mr. Plummey, 'but I don't speak from any personalknowledge, for I know nothing of the man.'

  'Well,' said Mr. Puffington, amused at his servant's exclusiveness, 'I wishyou would try to get rid of him, bow him out civilly, you know--say I'munwell--very unwell--deuced unwell--_ordered_ to keep quiet--say it as iffrom yourself, you know--it mustn't appear as if it came from me, youknow.'

  'In course not,' replied Mr. Plummey, 'in course not,' adding, 'I'll do mybest, sir--I'll do my best.' So saying, he took up the breakfast things anddeparted.

  Mr. Sponge regaling himself with a cigar in the stables and shrubberies, itwas some time before Mr. Plummey had an opportunity of trying his diplomacyupon him, it being contrary to Mr. Plummey's custom to go out of doorsafter any one. At last he saw Sponge coming lounging along theterrace-walk, looking like a man thoroughly disengaged, and, timing himselfproperly, encountered him in the entrance.

  'Beg pardon, sir,' said Mr. Plummey, 'but cook, sir, wishes to know, sir,if you dine here to-day, sir?'

  'Of course,' replied Mr. Sponge, 'where would you have me dine?'

  'Oh, I don't know, sir--only Mr. Puffington, sir, is very poorly, sir, andI thought p'raps you'd be dining out.

  'Poorly is he?' replied Mr. Sponge; 'sorry to hear that--what's the matterwith him?'

  'Bad bilious attack, I think,' replied Plummey--'very subject to them, atthis time of year particklarly; was laid up, at least confined to his room,three weeks last year of a similar attack.'

  'Indeed!' replied Mr. Sponge, not relishing the information.

  'Then I must say you'll dine here?' said the butler.

  'Yes; I must have my dinner, of course,' replied Mr. Sponge. 'I'm not ill,you know. No occasion to make a great spread for me, you know; but still Imust have
some victuals, you know.'

  'Certainly, sir, certainly,' replied Mr. Plummey.

  'I couldn't think of leaving Mr. Puffington when he's poorly,' observed Mr.Sponge, half to himself and half to the butler.

  'Oh, master--that's to say, Mr. Puffington--always does best when leftalone,' observed Mr. Plummey, catching at the sentence: 'indeed the medicalmen recommend perfect quiet and moderate living as the best thing.'

  'Do they?' replied Sponge, taking out another cigar. Mr. Plummey thenwithdrew, and presently went upstairs to report progress, or rather want ofprogress, to the gentleman whom he sometimes condescended to call 'master.'

  Mr. Puffington had been taking another spell at the paper, and we needhardly say that the more he read of the run the less he liked it.

  'Ah, that's Mr. Sponge's handiwork,' observed Plummey, as with a sneer ofdisgust Mr. Puffington threw the paper from him as Plummey entered theroom.

  'How do you know?' asked Mr. Puffington.

  'Saw it, sir--saw it in the letter-bag going to the post.'

  'Indeed!' replied Mr. Puffington.

  'Mr. Spraggon and he did it after they came in from hunting.'

  'I thought as much,' replied Mr. Puffington, in disgust.

  Mr. Plummey then related how unsuccessful had been his attempts to get ridof the now most unwelcome guest. Mr. Puffington listened with attention,determined to get rid of him somehow or other. Plummey was instructed toply Sponge well with hints, all of which, however, Mr. Sponge skilfullyparried. So, at last, Mr. Puffington scrawled a miserable-looking note,explaining how very ill he was, how he regretted being deprived of Mr.Sponge's agreeable society, but hoping that it would suit Mr. Sponge toreturn as soon as he was better and pay the remainder of his visit--apretty intelligible notice to quit, and one which even the cool Mr. Spongewas rather at a loss how to parry.

  He did not like the aspect of affairs. In addition to having to spend theevening by himself, the cook sent him a very moderate dinner, smoked soup,sodden fish, scraggy cutlets, and sour pudding. Mr. Plummey, too, seemed tohave put all the company bottle-ends together for him. This would not do.If Sponge could have satisfied himself that his host would not be better ina day or two, he would have thought seriously of leaving; but as he couldnot bring himself to think that he would not, and, moreover, had no placeto go to, had it not been for the concluding portion of Mr. Puffington'snote, he would have made an effort to stay. That, however, put it ratherout of his power, especially as it was done so politely, and hinted at arenewal of the visit. Mr. Sponge spent the evening in cogitating what heshould do--thinking what sportsmen had held out the hand ofgood-fellowship, and hinted at hoping to have the pleasure of seeing him.Fyle, Fossick, Blossomnose, Capon, Dribble, Hook, and others, were all runthrough his mind, without his thinking it prudent to attempt to fix avolunteer visit upon any of them. Many people he knew could pen politeexcuses, who yet could not hit them off at the moment, especially in thatgreat arena of hospitality--the hunting-field. He went to bed very muchperplexed.