the _Post_. At last, having exhausted all the
light reading in it, and scanned through the list of hunting appointments,
he took up the Swillingford paper to see that they had got his 'meets'
right for the next week. How astonished he was to find the previous day's
run staring him in the face, headed 'SPLENDID RUN WITH MR. PUFFINGTON'S
HOUNDS,' in the imposing type here displayed. 'Well, that's quick work,
however,' said he, casting his eyes up to the ceiling in astonishment, and
thinking how unlike it was the Swillingford papers, which were always a
week, but generally a fortnight behindhand with information. 'Splendid run
with Mr. Puffington's hounds,' read he again, wondering who had done it:
Bardolph, the innkeeper; Allsop, the cabinet-maker; Tuggins, the doctor,
were all out; so was Weatherhog, the butcher. Which of them could it be?
Grimes, the editor, wasn't there; indeed, he couldn't ride, and the country
was not adapted for a gig.

He then began to read it, and the further he got the more he was disgusted.
At last, when he came to the 'seasonal fox, which some thought was a bay
one,' his indignation knew no bounds, and crumpling the paper up in a heap,
he threw it from him in disgust. Just then in came Plummey, the butler.
Plummey saw at a glance what had happened; for Mr. Bragg, and the whips,
and the grooms, and the helpers, and the feeder--the whole hunting
establishment--were up in arms at the burlesque, and vowing vengeance
against the author of it. Mr. Spraggon, on seeing what a mess had been made
of his labours, availed himself of the offer of a seat in Captain Guano's
dog-cart, and was clear of the premises; while Mr. Sponge determined to
profit by Spraggon's absence, and lay the blame on him.

'Oh, Plummey!' exclaimed Mr. Puffington, as his servant entered, 'I'm
deuced unwell--quite knocked up, in short,' clapping his hand on his
forehead, adding, 'I shall not be able to dine downstairs to-day.'

''Deed, sir,' replied Mr. Plummey, in a tone of commiseration--''deed, sir;
sorry to hear that, sir.'

'Are they all gone?' asked Mr. Puffington, dropping his
boiled-gooseberry-looking eyes upon the fine-flowered carpet.

'All gone, sir--all gone,' replied Mr. Plummey; 'all except Mr. Sponge.'

'Oh, he's still here!' replied Mr. Puffington, shuddering with disgust at
the recollection of the newspaper run. 'Is he going to-day?' asked he.

'No, sir--I dare say not, sir,' replied Mr. Plummey. 'His man--his