while Mr. Puffington, finding where Mr. Sponge had taken refuge, determined not to meet within reach of Puddingpote Bower, if he could possibly help it; and Lord Scamperdale was almost always beyond distance, unless horse and rider lay out over-night—­a proceeding always deprecated by prudent sportsmen.  Mr. Sponge, therefore, got more of Mr. Jogglebury Crowdey’s company than he wanted, and Mr. Crowdey got more of Mr. Sponge’s than he desired.  In vain Jog took him up into his attics and his closets, and his various holes and corners, and showed him his enormous stock of sticks—­some tied in sheaves, like corn; some put up more sparingly; and others, again, wrapped in silver paper, with their valuable heads enveloped in old gloves.  Jog would untie the strings of these, and placing the heads in the most favourable position before our friend, just as an artist would a portrait, question him as to whom he thought they were.

‘There, now (puff),’ said he, holding up one that he thought there could be no mistake about; ‘who do you (wheeze) that is?’

‘Deaf Burke,’ replied Mr. Sponge, after a stare.

‘Deaf Burke! (puff),’ replied Jog indignantly.

‘Who is it, then?’ asked Mr. Sponge.

‘Can’t you see? (wheeze),’ replied Jog tartly.

‘No,’ replied Sponge, after another examination.  ’It’s not Scroggins, is it?’

‘Napoleon (puff) Bonaparte,’ replied Jog, with great dignity, returning the head to the glove.

He showed several others, with little better success, Mr. Sponge seeming rather to take a pleasure in finding ridiculous likenesses, instead of helping his host out in his conceits.  The stick-mania was a failure, as far as Mr. Sponge was concerned.  Neither were the peregrinations about the farms, or ter-ri-to-ry, as Jog called his estate, more successful; a man’s estate, like his children, being seldom of much interest to any but himself.

Jog and Sponge were soon most heartily sick of each other.  Nor did Mrs. Jog’s charms, nor the voluble enunciation of ‘Obin and Ichard,’ followed by ‘Bah, bah, black sheep,’ &c, from that wonderful boy, Gustavus James, mend matters; for the young rogue having been in Mr. Sponge’s room while Murry Ann was doing it out, had torn the back off Sponge’s Mogg, and made such a mess of his tooth-brush, by cleaning his shoes with it, as never was seen.

Mr. Sponge soon began to think it was not worth while staying at Puddingpote Bower for the mere sake of his keep, seeing there was no hunting to be had from it, and it did not do to keep hack hunters idle, especially in open weather.  Leather and he, for once, were of the same opinion, and that worthy shook his head, and said Mr. Crowdey was ’awful mean,’ at the same time pulling out a sample of bad ship oats, that he had got from a neighbouring ostler, to show the ‘stuff’ their ‘osses’ were a eatin’ of.  The fact was, Jog’s beer was nothing like so strong as Mr. Puffington’s;