oner or later. A man can hardly get
over either of them without knowing it. Well, Soapey having got into Oxford
Street, would make his way at a squarey, in-kneed, duck-toed, sort of pace,
regulated by the bonnets, the vehicles, and the equestrians he met to
criticize; for of women, vehicles, and horses, he had voted himself a
consummate judge. Indeed, he had fully established in his own mind that
Kiddey Downey and he were the only men in London who _really_ knew anything
about, horses, and fully impressed with that conviction, he would halt, and
stand, and stare, in a way that with any other man would have been
considered impertinent. Perhaps it was impertinent in Soapey--we don't mean
to say it wasn't--but he had done it so long, and was of so sporting a gait
and cut, that he felt himself somewhat privileged. Moreover, the majority
of horsemen are so satisfied with the animals they bestride, that they cock
up their jibs and ride along with a 'find any fault with either me or my
horse, if you can' sort of air.

Thus Mr. Sponge proceeded leisurely along, now nodding to this man, now
jerking his elbow to that, now smiling on a phaeton, now sneering at a
'bus. If he did not look in at Shackell's or Bartley's, or any of the
dealers on the line, he was always to be found about half-past five at
Cumberland Gate, from whence he would strike leisurely down the Park, and
after coming to a long check at Rotten Row rails, from whence he would pass
all the cavalry in the Park in review, he would wend his way back to the
Bantam, much in the style he had come. This was his summer proceeding.

Mr. Sponge had pursued this enterprising life for some 'seasons'--ten at
least--and supposing him to have begun at twenty or one-and-twenty, he
would be about thirty at the time we have the pleasure of introducing him
to our readers--a period of life at which men begin to suspect they were
not quite so wise at twenty as they thought. Not that Mr. Sponge had any
particular indiscretions to reflect upon, for he was tolerably sharp, but
he felt that he might have made better use of his time, which may be
shortly described as having been spent in hunting all the winter, and in
talking about it all the summer. With this popular sport he combined the
diversion of fortune-hunting, though we are concerned to say that his
success, up to the period of our introduction, had not been commensurate
with his deserts. Let us, however, hope that brighter days are