across his chest, from whence the coatee, flowing easily back, displayed the broad ridge and furrow of a white cord waistcoat, with a low step collar, the vest reaching low down his figure, with large flap pockets and a nick out in front, like a coachman’s.  Instead of buttons, the waistcoat was secured with foxes’ tusks and catgut loops, while a heavy curb chain, passing from one pocket to the other, raised the impression that there was a watch in one and a bunch of seals in the other.  The waistcoat was broadly bound with white binding, and, like the coat, evinced great strength and powers of resistance.  His breeches were of a still broader furrow than the waistcoat, looking as if the ploughman had laid two ridges into one.  They came low down the leg, and were met by a pair of well-made, well put on, very brown topped boots, a colour then unknown at Laverick Wells.  His spurs were bright and heavy, with formidable necks and rowels, whose slightest touch would make a horse wince, and put him on his good behaviour.

Nor did the great slapping brown horse, Hercules, turn out less imposingly than his master.  Leather, though not the man to work himself, had a very good idea of work, and right manfully he made the helpers at the Eclipse livery and bait stables strap and groom his horses.  Hercules was a fine animal.  It did not require a man to be a great judge of a horse to see that.  Even the ladies, though perhaps they would rather have had him a white or a cream colour, could not but admire his nut-brown muzzle, his glossy coat, his silky mane, and the elegant way in which he carried his flowing tail.  His step was delightful to look at—­so free, so accurate, and so easy.  And that reminds us that we may as well be getting Mr. Sponge up—­a feat of no easy accomplishment.  Few hack hunters are without their little peculiarities.  Some are runaways—­some kick—­some bite—­some go tail first on the road—­some go tail first at their fences—­some rush as if they were going to eat them, others baulk them altogether—­and few, very few, give satisfaction.  Those that do, generally retire from the public stud to the private one.  But to our particular quadruped, ‘Hercules.’

Mr. Sponge was not without his misgivings that, regardless of being on his preferment, the horse might exhibit more of his peculiarity than would forward his master’s interests, and, independently of the disagreeableness of being kicked off at the cover side, not being always compensated for by falling soft, Mr. Sponge thought, as the meet was not far off, and he did not sport a cover hack, it would look quite as well to ride his horse quietly on as go in a fly, provided always he could accomplish the mount—­the mount—­like the man walking with his head under his arm—­being the first step to everything.