CHAPTER LVIII

FACEY ROMFORD

[Illustration:  MR. FACEY ROMFORD]

Four days had now elapsed since Mr. Sponge penned his overture to Sir Harry, and each succeeding day satisfied him more of the utter impossibility of holding on much longer in his then billet at Puddingpote Bower.  Not only was Jog coarse and incessant in his hints to him to be off, but Jawleyford-like he had lowered the standard of entertainment so greatly, that if it hadn’t been that Mr. Sponge had his servant and horses kept also, he might as well have been living at his own expense.  The company lights were all extinguished; great, strong-smelling, cauliflower-headed moulds, that were always wanting snuffing, usurped the place of Belmont wax; napkins were withdrawn; second-hand table-cloths introduced; marsala did duty for sherry; and the stickjaw pudding assumed a consistency that was almost incompatible with articulation.

In the course of this time Sponge wrote to Puffington, saying if he was better he would return and finish his visit; but the wary Puff sent a messenger off express with a note, lamenting that he was ordered to Handley Cross for his health, but ‘pop’lar man’ like, hoping that the pleasure of Sponge’s company was only deferred for another season.  Jawleyford, even Sponge thought hopeless; and, altogether, he was very much perplexed.  He had made a little money certainly, with his horses; but a permanent investment of his elegant person, such as he had long been on the look-out for, seemed as far off as ever.  On the afternoon of the fifth day, as he was taking a solitary stroll about the country, having about made up his mind to be off to town, just as he was crossing Jog’s buttercup meadow on his way to the stable, a rapid bang! bang! caused him to start, and, looking over the hedge, he saw a brawny-looking sportsman in brown reloading his gun, with a brace of liver-and-white setters crouching like statues in the stubble.

‘Seek dead!’ presently said the shooter, with a slight wave of his hand; and in an instant each dog was picking up his bird.

‘I’ll have a word with you,’ said Sponge, ‘on and off-ing’ the hedge, his beat causing the shooter to start and look as if inclined for a run; second thoughts said Sponge was too near, and he’d better brave it.

‘What sport?’ asked Sponge, striding towards him.

‘Oh, pretty middling,’ replied the shooter, a great red-headed, freckly faced fellow, with backward-lying whiskers, crowned in a drab rustic.  ’Oh, pretty middling,’ repeated he, not knowing whether to act on the friendly or defensive.

‘Fine day!’ said Sponge, eyeing his fox-maskey whiskers and stout, muscular frame.

‘It is,’ replied the shooter; adding, ’just followed my birds over the boundary.  No ’fence, I s’pose—­no ‘fence.’

‘Oh no,’ said Mr. Sponge.  ’Jog, I dessay, ‘ll be very glad to see you.’