Mr. Sponges Sporting Tour | Page 7

his apparel in safe keeping, he condescended to take a place as job
coachman in a livery-stable--a 'horses let by the hour, day, or month'
one, in which he enacted as many characters, at least made as many
different appearances, as the late Mr. Mathews used to do in his
celebrated 'At Homes.' One day Peter would be seen ducking under the
mews' entrance in one of those greasy, painfully well-brushed hats, the
certain precursors of soiled linen and seedy, most seedy-covered
buttoned coats, that would puzzle a conjuror to say whether they were
black, or grey, or olive, or invisible green turned visible brown. Then
another day he might be seen in old Mrs. Gadabout's sky-blue livery,
with a tarnished, gold-laced hat, nodding over his nose; and on a third
he would shine forth in Mrs. Major-General Flareup's cockaded one,
with a worsted shoulder-knot, and a much over-daubed light drab livery
coat, with crimson inexpressibles, so tight as to astonish a beholder

how he ever got into them. Humiliation, however, has its limits as well
as other things; and Peter having been invited to descend from his
box--alas! a regular country patent leather one, and invest himself in a
Quaker-collared blue coat, with a red vest, and a pair of blue trousers
with a broad red stripe down the sides, to drive the Honourable old
Miss Wrinkleton, of Harley Street, to Court in a 'one oss
pianoforte-case,' as he called a Clarence, he could stand it no longer,
and, chucking the nether garments into the fire, he rushed frantically up
the area-steps, mounted his box, and quilted the old crocodile of a horse
all the way home, accompanying each cut with an imprecation such as
'me make a guy of myself!' (whip) 'me put on sich things!' (whip, whip)
'me drive down Sin Jimses-street!' (whip, whip, whip), '_I'd_ see her
---- fust!' (whip, whip, whip), cutting at the old horse just as if he was
laying it into Miss Wrinkleton, so that by the time he got home he had
established a considerable lather on the old nag, which his master
resenting a row ensued, the sequel of which may readily be imagined.
After assisting Mrs. Clearstarch, the Kilburn laundress, in getting in
and taking out her washing, for a few weeks, chance at last landed him
at Mr. Benjamin Buckram's, from whence he is now about to be
removed to become our hero Mr. Sponge's Sancho Panza, in his
fox-hunting, fortune-hunting career, and disseminate in remote parts his
doctrines of the real honour and dignity of servitude. Now to the
inspection.
Peter Leather, having a peep-hole as well as his master, on seeing Mr.
Sponge arrive, had given himself an extra rub over, and covered his
dirty shirt with a clean, well-tied, white kerchief, and a whole coloured
scarlet waistcoat, late the property of one of his noble employers, in
hopes that Sponge's visit might lead to something. Peter was about sick
of the suburbs, and thought, of course, that he couldn't be worse off
than where he was.
'Here's Mr. Sponge wants some osses,' observed Mr. Buckram, as
Leather met them in the middle of the little yard, and brought his right
arm round with a sort of military swing to his forehead; 'what 'ave we
in?' continued Buckram, with the air of a man with so many horses that
he didn't know what were in and what were out.

'Vy we 'ave Rumbleton in,' replied Leather, thoughtfully, stroking
down his hair as he spoke, 'and we 'ave Jack o'Lanthorn in, and we 'ave
the Camel in, and there's the little Hirish oss with the sprig
tail--Jack-a-Dandy, as I calls him, and the Flyer will be in to-night, he's
just out a hairing, as it were, with old Mr. Callipash.'
'Ah, Rumbleton won't do for Mr. Sponge,' observed Buckram,
thoughtfully, at the same time letting go a tremendous avalanche of
silver down his trouser pocket, 'Rumbleton won't do,' repeated he, 'nor
Jack-a-Dandy nouther.'
'Why, I wouldn't commend neither on 'em,' replied Peter, taking his cue
from his master, 'only ven you axes me vot there's in, you knows vy I
must give you a _cor_-rect answer, in course.'
'In course,' nodded Buckram.
Leather and Buckram had a good understanding in the lying line, and
had fallen into a sort of tacit arrangement that if the former was staunch
about the horses he was at liberty to make the best terms he could for
himself. Whatever Buckram said, Leather swore to, and they had
established certain signals and expressions that each understood.
'I've an unkimmon nice oss,' at length observed Mr. Buckram, with a
scrutinizing glance at Sponge, 'and an oss in hevery respect werry like
your work, but he's an oss I'll candidly state, I wouldn't put in every