No man in the master-of-hound world is too insignificant for censure.

Lord Scamperdale _was_ an undoubted sportsman; while poor Mr.
Puffington thought of nothing but how to be thought one.

Hearing the mistaken rumour that a great writer was down, he thought that his chance of immortality was arrived; and, ordering his best horse, and putting on his best apparel, had braved the jibes and sneers of Jack and his lordship for the purpose of scraping acquaintance with the stranger.

In that he had been foiled: there was no time at the meet to get introduced, neither could he get jostled beside Sponge in going down to the cover; while the quick find, the quick get away, followed by the quick thing we have described, were equally unfavourable to the undertaking.

Nevertheless, Mr.Puffington had held on beyond the brick-fields; and had he but persevered a little farther, he would have had the satisfaction of helping Mr.Sponge out of the bog.
Sponge now, seeing a red coat a little before, trotted on, and quickly overtook a fine nippy, satin-stocked, dandified looking gentleman, with marvellously smart leathers and boots--a great contrast to the large, roomy, bargemanlike costume of the members of the Flat Hat Hunt.
'You're not hurt, I hope ?' exclaimed Mr.Puffington, with well-feigned anxiety, as he looked at Mr.Sponge's black-daubed clothes.
'Oh no!' replied Sponge.