'I couldn't think of leaving Mr. Puffington when he's poorly,' observed Mr. Sponge, half to himself and half to the butler.
'Oh, master—that's to say, Mr. Puffington—always does best when left alone,' observed Mr. Plummey, catching at the sentence: 'indeed the medical men recommend perfect quiet and moderate living as the best thing.'
'Do they?' replied Sponge, taking out another cigar. Mr. Plummey then withdrew, and presently went upstairs to report progress, or rather want of progress, to the gentleman whom he sometimes condescended to call 'master.'
Mr. Puffington had been taking another spell at the paper, and we need hardly say that the more he read of the run the less he liked it.
'Ah, that's Mr. Sponge's handiwork,' observed Plummey, as with a sneer of disgust Mr. Puffington threw the paper from him as Plummey entered the room.
'How do you know?' asked Mr. Puffington.
'Saw it, sir—saw it in the letter-bag going to the post.'
'Indeed!' replied Mr. Puffington.
'Mr. Spraggon and he did it after they came in from hunting.'
'I thought as much,' replied Mr. Puffington, in disgust.