[Illustration:  MR. PACEY TRIES MULTUM-IN-PARVO]

Though our friend was a good deal shaken by the fall, the injury to his body was trifling compared to that done to his mind.  Being kicked off a horse was an indignity he had never calculated upon.  Moreover, it was done in such a masterly manner as clearly showed it could be repeated at pleasure.  In addition to which everybody laughs at a man that is kicked off.  All these considerations rushed to his mind, and made him determine not to brook the mirth of the guests as well as the servants.

Accordingly he borrowed a hat and started off home, and seeking his guardian, Major Screw, confided to him the position of affairs.  The major, who was a man of the world, forthwith commenced a negotiation with Mr. Sponge, who, after a good deal of haggling, and not until the horse had shot the major over his head, too, at length, as a great favour, consented to take fifty pounds to rescind the bargain, accompanying his kindness by telling the major to advise his ward never to dabble in horseflesh after dinner; a piece of advice that we also very respectfully tender to our juvenile readers.

And Sponge shortly after sent Spraggon a five pound note as his share of the transaction.

CHAPTER XLIII

ANOTHER SICK HOST

[Illustration:  letter W]

When Mr. Puffington read Messrs. Sponge and Spraggon’s account of the run with his hounds, in the Swillingford paper, he was perfectly horrified; words cannot describe the disgust that he felt.  It came upon him quite by surprise, for he expected to be immortalized in some paper or work of general circulation, in which the Lords Loosefish, Sir Toms, and Sir Harrys of former days might recognize the spirited doings of their early friend.  He wanted the superiority of his establishment, the excellence of his horses, the stoutness of his hounds, and the polish of his field, proclaimed, with perhaps a quiet cut at the Flat-Hat gentry; instead of which he had a mixed medley sort of a mess, whose humdrum monotony was only relieved 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 for the purpose of turning run-writing into ridicule, or it had suffered mutilation at the hands of the printer.  Calling a good scent an exquisite perfume looked suspicious of a hoax, but then seasonal fox for seasoned fox, scorning to cry for scoring to cry, bay fox for bag fox, grunting for hunting, thrashing for trashing, rests for casts, and other absurdities, looked more like accident than design.