nue with a clearly drunken man inside them.
Jog stood straining his eyes watching their movements, wondering whether
they would keep the saddle or come off--whenever the breeches seemed
irrevocably gone, they invariably recovered themselves with a jerk or a
lurch--Jog now saw it was Leather on the piebald, and though he had no
fancy for the man, he stood to let him come up, thinking to hear something
of Sponge. Leather in due time saw the great looming outline of our friend
and came staring and shaking his head, endeavouring to identify it. He
thought at first it was the Squire--next he thought it wasn't--then he was
sure it wasn't.

'Oh! it's you, old boy, is it?' at last exclaimed he, pulling up beside the
large holly against which our friend had placed himself, 'It's you, old
boy, is it?' repeated he, extending his right hand and nearly overbalancing
himself, adding as he recovered his equilibrium, 'I thought it was the old
Woolpack at first,' nodding his head towards the house. 'Well,' spluttered
he, pulling up, and sitting, as he thought, quite straight in the saddle,
'we've had the finest day's sport and the most equitable drink I've enjoyed
for many a long day. 'Ord bless us, what a gent that Sir 'Arry is! He's the
sort of man that should have money. I'm blowed, if I were queen, but I'd
melt all the great blubber-headed fellows like this 'ere Crowdey down, and
make one sich man as Sir 'Arry out of the 'ole on 'em. Beer! they don't
know wot beer is there! nothin' but the werry strongest hale, instead of
the puzzon one gets at this awful mean place, that looks like nothin' but
the weshin' o' brewers' haprons. Oh! I 'umbly begs pardon,' exclaimed he,
dropping from his horse on to his knees on discovering that he was
addressing Mr. Crowdey--'I thought it was Robins, the mole-ketcher.'

'Thought it was Robins, the mole-catcher,' growled Jog; 'what have you to
do with (puff) Robins, the (wheeze) mole-catcher?'

Jog boiled over with indignation. At first he thought of kicking Leather, a
feat that his suppliant position made extremely convenient, if not
tempting. Prudence, however, suggested that Leather might have him up for
the assault. So he stood puffing and wheezing and eyeing the blear-eyed,
brandy-nosed old drunkard with, as he thought, a withering look of
contempt; and then, though the man was drunk and the night was dark, he
waddled off, leaving Mr. Leather on his once white breeches' knees. If Jog
had had reas