had mentioned Sir Harry approvingly, when he went to
Mr. Puffington's, to inveigle Mr. Sponge over to Puddingpote Bower; but
what might suit Mr. Jogglebury, who went out to seek gibbey sticks, might
not suit a person who went out for the purpose of hunting a fox in order to
show off and sell his horses. In fact, Puddingpote Bower was an exceedingly
bad hunting quarter, as things turned out. Sir Harry Scattercash, having
had the run described in our two preceding chapters, and having just
imported a few of the 'sock-and-buskin' sort from town, was not likely to
be going out again for a time; while Mr. Puffington, finding where Mr.
Sponge had taken refuge, determined not to meet within reach of Puddingpote
Bower, if he could possibly help it; and Lord Scamperdale was almost always
beyond distance, unless horse and rider lay out over-night--a proceeding
always deprecated by prudent sportsmen. Mr. Sponge, therefore, got more of
Mr. Jogglebury Crowdey's company than he wanted, and Mr. Crowdey got more
of Mr. Sponge's than he desired. In vain Jog took him up into his attics
and his closets, and his various holes and corners, and showed him his
enormous stock of sticks--some tied in sheaves, like corn; some put up more
sparingly; and others, again, wrapped in silver paper, with their valuable
heads enveloped in old gloves. Jog would untie the strings of these, and
placing the heads in the most favourable position before our friend, just
as an artist would a portrait, question him as to whom he thought they
were.

'There, now (puff),' said he, holding up one that he thought there could be
no mistake about; 'who do you (wheeze) that is?'

'Deaf Burke,' replied Mr. Sponge, after a stare.

'_Deaf Burke!_ (puff),' replied Jog indignantly.

'Who is it, then?' asked Mr. Sponge.

'Can't you see? (wheeze),' replied Jog tartly.

'No,' replied Sponge, after another examination. 'It's not Scroggins, is
it?'

'Napoleon (puff) Bonaparte,' replied Jog, with great dignity, returning the
head to the glove.

He showed several others, with little better success, Mr. Sponge seeming
rather to take a pleasure in finding ridiculous likenesses, instead of
helping his host out in his conceits. The stick-mania was a failure, as far
as Mr. Sponge was concerned. Neither were the peregrinations about the
farms, or ter-ri-to-ry, as Jog called his estate, more successful; a man's
estate, like his children, being seldom of much interest to any but
h