Mr. Sponges Sporting Tour | Page 3

required you to place him in a favourable light to say what
it was.
His waistcoats, of course, were of the most correct form and material,
generally either pale buff, or buff with a narrow stripe, similar to the
undress vests of the servants of the Royal Family, only with the pattern
run across instead of lengthways, as those worthies mostly have theirs,
and made with good honest step collars, instead of the make-believe
roll collars they sometimes convert their upright ones into. When in
deep thought, calculating, perhaps, the value of a passing horse, or
considering whether he should have beefsteaks or lamb chops for
dinner, Sponge's thumbs would rest in the arm-holes of his waistcoat;
in which easy, but not very elegant, attitude he would sometimes stand
until all trace of the idea that elevated them had passed away from his
mind.
In the trouser line he adhered to the close-fitting costume of former
days; and many were the trials, the easings, and the alterings, ere he got
a pair exactly to his mind. Many were the customers who turned away
on seeing his manly figure filling the swing mirror in 'Snip and
Sneiders',' a monopoly that some tradesmen might object to, only Mr.
Sponge's trousers being admitted to be perfect 'triumphs of the art,' the
more such a walking advertisement was seen in the shop the better.
Indeed, we believe it would have been worth Snip and Co.'s while to

have let him have them for nothing. They were easy without being tight,
or rather they looked tight without being so; there wasn't a bag, a
wrinkle, or a crease that there shouldn't be, and strong and
storm-defying as they seemed, they were yet as soft and as supple as a
lady's glove. They looked more as if his legs had been blown in them
than as if such irreproachable garments were the work of man's hands.
Many were the nudges, and many the 'look at this chap's trousers,' that
were given by ambitious men emulous of his appearance as he passed
along, and many were the turnings round to examine their faultless fall
upon his radiant boot. The boots, perhaps, might come in for a little of
the glory, for they were beautifully soft and cool-looking to the foot,
easy without being loose, and he preserved the lustre of their polish,
even up to the last moment of his walk. There never was a better man
for getting through dirt, either on foot or horseback, than our friend.
To the frequenters of the 'corner,' it were almost superfluous to mention
that he is a constant attendant. He has several volumes of 'catalogues,'
with the prices the horses have brought set down in the margins, and
has a rare knack at recognizing old friends, altered, disguised, or
disfigured as they may be--'I've seen that rip before,' he will say, with a
knowing shake of the head, as some woe-begone devil goes, best leg
foremost, up to the hammer, or, 'What! is that old beast back? why he's
here every day.' No man can impose upon Soapy with a horse. He can
detect the rough-coated plausibilities of the straw-yard, equally with the
metamorphosis of the clipper or singer. His practised eye is not to be
imposed upon either by the blandishments of the bang-tail, or the
bereavements of the dock. Tattersall will hail him from his rostrum
with--'Here's a horse will suit you, Mr. Sponge! cheap, good, and
handsome! come and buy him.' But it is needless describing him here,
for every out-of-place groom and dog-stealer's man knows him by
sight.
CHAPTER II
MR. BENJAMIN BUCKRAM
Having dressed and sufficiently described our hero to enable our

readers to form a general idea of the man, we have now to request them
to return to the day of our introduction. Mr. Sponge had gone along
Oxford Street at a somewhat improved pace to his usual wont--had
paused for a shorter period in the ''bus' perplexed 'Circus,' and pulled up
seldomer than usual between the Circus and the limits of his stroll.
Behold him now at the Edgeware Road end, eyeing the 'buses with a
wanting-a-ride like air, instead of the contemptuous sneer he generally
adopts towards those uncouth productions. Red, green blue, drab,
cinnamon-colour, passed and crossed, and jostled, and stopped, and
blocked, and the cads telegraphed, and winked, and nodded, and smiled,
and slanged, but Mr. Sponge regarded them not. He had a sort of ''bus'
panorama in his head, knew the run of them all, whence they started,
where they stopped, where they watered, where they changed, and,
wonderful to relate, had never been entrapped into a sixpenny fare
when he meant to take a threepenny one. In cab and ''bus' geography
there is not a more learned man