ir, no,' he
continued, pronging another onion; '_I_ have some regard for the hinterest
o' my master. I'll do my duty in the station o' life in which I'm placed,
and won't be 'fraid to face no man.' So saying, Mr. Leather cut himself a
grand circumference of beef.

Mr. Sponge was taken aback, for he had never seen a conscientious
livery-stable helper before, and did not believe in the existence of such
articles. However, here was Mr. Leather assuming a virtue, whether he had
it or not; and Mr. Sponge being in the man's power, of course durst not
quarrel with him. It was clear that Leather would not go; and the question
was, what should Mr. Sponge do? 'Why shouldn't I go myself?' he thought,
shutting his eyes, as if to keep his faculties free from outward
distraction. He ran the thing quickly over in his mind. 'What Leather can
do, I can do,' he said, remembering that a groom never demeaned himself by
working where there was an ostler. 'These things I have on will do quite
well for to-morrow, at least among such rough-and-ready dogs as the Flat
Hat men, who seem as if they had their clothes pitched on with a fork.'

His mind was quickly made up, and calling for pen, ink, and paper, he wrote
a hasty note to Jawleyford, explaining why he would not cast up till the
morrow; he then got the chestnut out of the stable, and desiring the ostler
to give the note to Leather, and tell him to go home with his hack, he just
rode out of the yard without giving Leather the chance of saying 'nay.' He
then jogged on at a pace suitable to the accurate measurement of the
distance.

The horse seemed to like having Sponge's red coat on better than Leather's
brown, and champed his bit, and stepped away quite gaily.

'Confound it!' exclaimed Sponge, laying the rein on its neck, and leaning
forward to pat him; 'it's a pity but you were always in this humour--you'd
be worth a mint of money if you were.' He then resumed his seat in the
saddle, and bethought him how he would show them the way on the morrow. 'If
he doesn't beat every horse in the field, it shan't be my fault,' thought
he; and thereupon he gave him the slightest possible touch with the spur,
and the horse shot away up a strip of grass like an arrow.

'By Jove, but you _can_ go!' said he, pulling up as the grass ran out upon
the hard road.

Thus he reached the village of Hardington, which he quickly cleared, and
took the well-defined road to Bewley--a road adorned with milestones