vote we have him,' replied her
ladyship.

That was rather a damper for Sir Harry; but upon reflection, he thought he
could not be worse off with Mr. Sponge and Mr. Bugles than he was with Mr.
Bugles alone; so, having finished a poor appetiteless breakfast, he
repaired to what he called his 'study,' and with a feeble, shaky hand,
scrawled an invitation to Mr. Sponge to come over to Nonsuch House, and
take his chance of a run with his hounds. He then sealed and posted the
letter without further to do.

CHAPTER LVIII

FACEY ROMFORD

[Illustration: MR. FACEY ROMFORD]

Four days had now elapsed since Mr. Sponge penned his overture to Sir
Harry, and each succeeding day satisfied him more of the utter
impossibility of holding on much longer in his then billet at Puddingpote
Bower. Not only was Jog coarse and incessant in his hints to him to be off,
but Jawleyford-like he had lowered the standard of entertainment so
greatly, that if it hadn't been that Mr. Sponge had his servant and horses
kept also, he might as well have been living at his own expense. The
company lights were all extinguished; great, strong-smelling,
cauliflower-headed moulds, that were always wanting snuffing, usurped the
place of Belmont wax; napkins were withdrawn; second-hand table-cloths
introduced; marsala did duty for sherry; and the stickjaw pudding assumed a
consistency that was almost incompatible with articulation.

In the course of this time Sponge wrote to Puffington, saying if he was
better he would return and finish his visit; but the wary Puff sent a
messenger off express with a note, lamenting that he was ordered to Handley
Cross for his health, but 'pop'lar man' like, hoping that the pleasure of
Sponge's company was only deferred for another season. Jawleyford, even
Sponge thought hopeless; and, altogether, he was very much perplexed. He
had made a little money certainly, with his horses; but a permanent
investment of his elegant person, such as he had long been on the look-out
for, seemed as far off as ever. On the afternoon of the fifth day, as he
was taking a solitary stroll about the country, having about made up his
mind to be off to town, just as he was crossing Jog's buttercup meadow on
his way to the stable, a rapid bang! bang! caused him to start, and,
looking over the hedge, he saw a brawny-looking sportsman in brown
reloading his gun, with a brace of liver-and-white setters crouching like
statues in the stubble.