He did not like the aspect of affairs.  In addition to having to spend the evening by himself, the cook sent him a very moderate dinner, smoked soup, sodden fish, scraggy cutlets, and sour pudding.  Mr. Plummey, too, seemed to have 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 in a day or two, he would have thought seriously of leaving; but as he could not bring himself to think that he would not, and, moreover, had no place to go to, had it not been for the concluding portion of Mr. Puffington’s note, he would have made an effort to stay.  That, however, put it rather out of his power, especially as it was done so politely, and hinted at a renewal of the visit.  Mr. Sponge spent the evening in cogitating what he should do—­thinking what sportsmen had held out the hand of good-fellowship, and hinted at hoping to have the pleasure of seeing him.  Fyle, Fossick, Blossomnose, Capon, Dribble, Hook, and others, were all run through his mind, without his thinking it prudent to attempt to fix a volunteer visit upon any of them.  Many people he knew could pen polite excuses, who yet could not hit them off at the moment, especially in that great arena of hospitality—­the hunting-field.  He went to bed very much perplexed.

CHAPTER XLIV

WANTED—­A RICH GOD-PAPA!

‘When one door shuts another opens,’ say the saucy servants; and fortune was equally favourable to our friend Mr. Sponge.  Though he could not think of any one to whom he could volunteer a visit.  Dame Fortune provided him with an overture from a party who wanted him!  But we will introduce his new host, or rather victim.

People hunt from various motives—­some for the love of the thing—­some for show—­some for fashion—­some for health—­some for appetites—­some for coffee-housing—­some to say they have hunted—­some because others hunt.

Mr. Jogglebury Crowdey did not hunt from any of these motives, and it would puzzle a conjurer to make out why he hunted; indeed, the members of the different hunts he patronized—­for he was one of the run-about, non-subscribing sort—­were long in finding out.  It was observed that he generally affected countries abounding in large woods, such as Stretchaway Forest, Hazelbury Chase, and Oakington Banks, into which he would dive with the greatest avidity.  At first people thought he was a very keen hand, anxious to see a fox handsomely found, if he could not see him handsomely finished, against which latter luxury his figure and activity, or want of activity, were somewhat opposed.  Indeed, when we say that he went by the name of the Woolpack, our readers will be able to imagine the style of man he was:  long-headed, short-necked, large-girthed, dumpling-legged little fellow, who, like most fat men, made himself dangerous by compressing a most unreasonable stomach into a circumscribed coat, each