These are the sort of errors that non-sporting compositors might easily make, one term being as much like English to them as the other, though amazingly different to the eye or the ear of a sportsman.  Mr. Puffington was thoroughly disgusted.  He was sick of hounds and horses, and Bragg, and hay and corn, and kennels and meal, and saddles and bridles; and now, this absurdity seemed to cap the whole thing.  He was ill-prepared for such a shock.  The exertion of successive dinner-giving—­above all, of bachelor dinner-giving—­and that too in the country, where men sit, talk, talk, talking, sip, sip, sipping, and ‘just another bottle-ing’; more, we believe, from want of something else to do than from any natural inclination to exceed; the exertion, we say, of such parties had completely unstrung our fat friend, and ill-prepared his nerves for such a shock.  Being a great man for his little comforts, he always breakfasted in his dressing-room, which he had fitted up in the most luxurious style, and where he had his newspapers (most carefully ironed out) laid with his letters against he came in.  It was late on the morning following our last chapter ere he thought he had got rid of as much of his winey headache as fitful sleep would carry off, and enveloped himself in a blue and yellow-flowered silk dressing-gown and Turkish slippers.  He looked at his letters, and knowing their outsides, left them for future perusal, and sousing himself into the depths of a many-cushioned easy-chair, proceeded to spell his Morning Post—­Tattersall’s advertisements—­’Grosjean’s Pale-tots’—­’Mr. Albert Smith’—­’Coals, best Stewart Hetton or Lambton’s’—­’Police Intelligence,’ and such other light reading as does not require any great effort to connect or comprehend.

Then came his breakfast, for which he had very little appetite, though he relished his coffee, and also an anchovy.  While dawdling over these, he heard sundry wheels grinding about below the window, and the bumping and thumping of boxes, indicative of ‘goings away,’ for which he couldn’t say he felt sorry.  He couldn’t even be at the trouble of getting up and going to the window to see who it was that was off, so weary and head-achy was he.  He rolled and lolled in his chair, now taking a sip of coffee, now a bite of anchovy toast, now considering whether he durst venture on an egg, and again having recourse to the Post.  At last, having exhausted all the light 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’s run staring him in the face, headed ’SPLENDID RUN WITH MR. PUFFINGTON’S HOUNDS,’ in the imposing type here displayed.  ’Well, that’s quick work, however,’ said he, casting his eyes up to the ceiling in astonishment, and thinking how unlike it was the Swillingford papers, which were always a week, but generally a fortnight behindhand with information.  ’Splendid run with 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 country was not adapted for a gig.