Mr. Sponge's Sporting Tour

by Robert Smith Surtees

'Rummy lot,' observed Mr. Peastraw, with a shake of the head.

'Are they?' asked Mr. Sponge.

'Very!' replied Mr. Peastraw. 'Be the death of Sir Harry among 'em.'

'Who are they all?' asked Mr. Sponge.

'Rubbish!' replied Peastraw with a sneer, diving his hands into the depths of his pockets. 'Well, we'd better go in,' added he, pulling his hands out and rubbing them, to betoken that he felt cold.

Mr. Sponge, not being much of a drinker, was more overcome with what he had taken than a seasoned cask would have been; added to which the keen night air striking upon his heated frame soon sent the liquor into his head. He began to feel queer.

'Well,' said he to his host, 'I think I'd better be going.'

'Where are you bound for?' asked Mr. Peastraw.

'To Puddingpote Bower,' replied Mr. Sponge.