on a lengthened duration of office, just put on the steam of extravagance, and seemed inclined to try how much he could spend for his master.  His bills for draft hounds were enormous; he was continually chopping and changing his horses, often almost without consulting his master; he had a perfect museum of saddles and bridles, in which every invention and variety of bit was exhibited; and he had paid as much as twenty pounds to different ‘valets’ and grooms for invaluable recipes for cleaning leather breeches and gloves.  Altogether, Bragg overdid the thing; and when Mr. Puffington, in the solitude of a winter’s day, took pen, ink, and paper, and drew out a ‘balance sheet,’ he found that on the average of six brace of foxes to the season, they had cost him about three hundred pounds a head killing.  It was true that Bragg always returned five or six and twenty brace; but that was as between Bragg and the public, as between Bragg and his master the smaller figure was the amount.

Mr. Puffington had had enough of it, and he now thought if he could get Mr. Sponge (who he still believed to be a sporting author on his travels) to immortalize him, he might retire into privacy, and talk of ’when I kept hounds,’ ‘when I hunted the country,’ ’when I was master of hounds I did this, and I did that,’ and fuss, and be important as we often see ex-masters of hounds when they go out with other packs.  It was this erroneous impression with regard to Mr. Sponge that took our friend to the meet of Lord Scamperdale’s hounds at Scrambleford Green, when he gave Mr. Sponge a general invitation to visit him before he left the country, an invitation that was as acceptable to Mr. Sponge on his expulsion from Jawleyford Court, as it was agreeable to Mr. Puffington—­by opening a route by which he might escape from the penalty of hound-keeping, and the persecution of his huntsman.

The reader will therefore now have the kindness to consider Mr. Puffington in receipt of Mr. Sponge’s note, volunteering a visit.

With gay and cheerful steps our friend hurried off to the kennel, to communicate the intelligence to Mr. Bragg of an intended honour that he inwardly hoped would have the effect of extinguishing that great sporting luminary.

Arriving at the kennel, he learned from the old feeder, Jack Horsehide, who, as usual, was sluicing the flags with water, though the weather was wet, that Mr. Bragg was in the house (a house that had been the steward’s in the days of the former owner of Hanby House).  Thither Mr. Puffington proceeded; and the front door being open he entered, and made for the little parlour on the right.  Opening the door without knocking, what should he find but the swell huntsman, Mr. Bragg, full fig, in his cap, best scarlet and leathers, astride a saddle-stand, sitting for his portrait!