nice ’un.  Lord Bullfrog’s man was a ridin’ of him, and he kept him outside the crowd, showin’ off his pints, and passin’ him backwards and forwards under people’s noses, to ’tract the notish of the nobs—­parsecutin, what I call—­and I see’d Mr. Sponge struck—­I’ve known Mr. Sponge many years, and a ’ticklar nice gent he is—­well, Mr. Sponge pulled hup, and said to the grum, “Who’s o’ that oss?” “My Lor’ Bullfrog’s, sir,” said the man.  “He’s a deuced nice ’un,” observed Mr. Sponge, thinkin’, as he was a lord’s, he might praise ’im, seein’, in all probability, he weren’t for sale.  “He is that,” said the grum, patting him on the neck, as though he were special fond on him.  “Is my lord out?” asked Mr. Sponge.  “No, sir; he’s not come down yet,” replied the man, “nor do I know when he will come.  He’s been down at Bath for some time ‘sociatin’ with the aldermen o’ Bristol and has thrown up a vast o’ bad flesh—­two stun’ sin’ last season—­and he’s afeared this oss won’t be able to carry ’im, and so he writ to me to take ’im out to-day, to show ’im.”  “He’d carry me, I think,” said Mr. Sponge, making hup his mind on the moment, jist as he makes hup his mind to ride at a fence—­not that I think it’s a good plan for a gent to show that he’s sweet on an oss, for they’re sure to make him pay for it.  Howsomever, that’s nouther here nor there.  Well, jist as Mr. Sponge said this, Sir Richard driv’ hup, and havin’ got his oss, away we trotted to the goss jist below, and the next thing I see’d was Mr. Sponge leadin’ the ’ole field on this werry nag.  Well, I heard no more till I got to Melton, for I didn’t go to my haunt’s at Mount Sorrel that night, and I saw little of the run, for my oss was rather puffy, livin’ principally on chaff, bran mashes, swedes, and soft food; and when I got to Melton, I heard ’ow Mr. Sponge had bought this oss,’ Mr. Buckram nodding his head at the horse as he spoke, ’and ’ow that he’d given the matter o’ two ’under’d—­or I’m not sure it weren’t two ’under’d-and-fifty guineas for ‘im, and—­’

‘Well,’ interrupted Mr. Waffles, tired of his verbosity, ’and what did they say about the horse?’

‘Why,’ continued Mr. Buckram, thoughtfully, propping his chin up with his stick, and drawing all the half-crowns up to the top of his pocket again, ’the fust ‘spicious thing I heard was Sir Digby Snaffle’s grum, Sam, sayin’ to Captain Screwley’s bat-man grum, jist afore the George Inn door,—­

’"Well, Jack, Tommy’s sold the brown oss!”

‘"N—­O—­O—­R!” exclaimed Jack, starin’ ’is eyes out, as if it were unpossible.

’"He ’as though,” said Sam.

’"Well, then, I ‘ope the gemman’s fond o’ walkin’,” exclaimed Jack, bustin’ out a laughin’ and runnin’ on.

‘This rayther set me a thinkin’,’ continued Mr. Buckram, dropping a second half-crown, which jinked against the nest-egg one left at the bottom, ’and fearin’ that Mr. Sponge had fallen ’mong the Philistines—­which I was werry concerned about, for he’s a real nice gent, but thoughtless, as many young gents are who ’ave plenty of tin—­I made it my business to inquire ’bout this oss; and if he is the oss that I saw in Leicestersheer, and I ’ave little doubt about it (dropping two consecutive half-crowns as he spoke), though I’ve not seen him out, I—­’