ests for casts, and other absurdities,
looked more like accident than design.

These are the sort of errors that non-sporting compositors might easily
make, one term being as much like English to them as the other, though
amazingly different to the eye or the ear of a sportsman. Mr. Puffington
was thoroughly disgusted. He was sick of hounds and horses, and Bragg, and
hay and corn, and kennels and meal, and saddles and bridles; and now, this
absurdity seemed to cap the whole thing. He was ill-prepared for such a
shock. The exertion of successive dinner-giving--above all, of bachelor
dinner-giving--and that too in the country, where men sit, talk, talk,
talking, sip, sip, sipping, and 'just another bottle-ing'; more, we
believe, from want of something else to do than from any natural
inclination to exceed; the exertion, we say, of such parties had completely
unstrung our fat friend, and ill-prepared his nerves for such a shock.
Being a great man for his little comforts, he always breakfasted in his
dressing-room, which he had fitted up in the most luxurious style, and
where he had his newspapers (most carefully ironed out) laid with his
letters against he came in. It was late on the morning following our last
chapter ere he thought he had got rid of as much of his winey headache as
fitful sleep would carry off, and enveloped himself in a blue and
yellow-flowered silk dressing-gown and Turkish slippers. He looked at his
letters, and knowing their outsides, left them for future perusal, and
sousing himself into the depths of a many-cushioned easy-chair, proceeded
to spell his _Morning Post_--Tattersall's advertisements--'Grosjean's
Pale-tots'--'Mr. Albert Smith'--'Coals, best Stewart Hetton or
Lambton's'--'Police Intelligence,' and such other light reading as does not
require any great effort to connect or comprehend.

Then came his breakfast, for which he had very little appetite, though he
relished his coffee, and also an anchovy. While dawdling over these, he
heard sundry wheels grinding about below the window, and the bumping and
thumping of boxes, indicative of 'goings away,' for which he couldn't say
he felt sorry. He couldn't even be at the trouble of getting up and going
to the window to see who it was that was off, so weary and head-achy was
he. He rolled and lolled in his chair, now taking a sip of coffee, now a
bite of anchovy toast, now considering whether he durst venture on an egg,
and again having recourse to