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.