Well, I was down there just at the beginnin' of the season, the 'ounds met at Kirby Gate--a mile or two to the south, you know, on the Leicester road--it was the fust day of the season, in fact--and there was a great crowd, and I was one; and havin' a heye for an oss, I was struck with this one, you understand, bein' as I thought, a 'ticklar nice 'un.

Lord Bullfrog's man was a ridin' of him, and he kept him outside the crowd, showin' off his pints, and passin' him backwards and forwards under people's noses, to 'tract the notish of the nobs--parsecutin, what I call--and I see'd Mr.
Sponge struck--I've known Mr.Sponge many years, and a 'ticklar nice gent he is--well, Mr.Sponge pulled hup, and said to the grum, "Who's o' that oss ?" "My Lor' Bullfrog's, sir," said the man.

"He's a deuced nice 'un," observed Mr.Sponge, thinkin', as he was a lord's, he might praise 'im, seein', in all probability, he weren't for sale.

"He is _that_," said the grum, patting him on the neck, as though he were special fond on him.

"Is my lord out ?" asked Mr.Sponge.