Mr. Sponge's Sporting Tour
Page 52
CHAPTER LII
A MOONLIGHT RIDE
The position, then, of Mr. Sponge was this. He was left on a frosty,moonlight night at the door of a strange farmhouse, staring after areceding coach, containing all his recent companions.
'You'll not be goin' wi' 'em, then?' observed Mr. Peastraw, who stoodbeside him, listening to the shrill notes of the horn dying out in thedistance.
'No,' replied Mr. Sponge.
'Rummy lot,' observed Mr. Peastraw, with a shake of the head.
'Are they?' asked Mr. Sponge.
'Very!' replied Mr. Peastraw. 'Be the death of Sir Harry among 'em.'
'Who are they all?' asked Mr. Sponge.
'Rubbish!' replied Peastraw with a sneer, diving his hands into the depthsof his pockets. 'Well, we'd better go in,' added he, pulling his hands outand rubbing them, to betoken that he felt cold.
Mr. Sponge, not being much of a drinker, was more overcome with what he hadtaken than a seasoned cask would have been; added to which the keen nightair striking upon his heated frame soon sent the liquor into his head. Hebegan to feel queer.
'Well,' said he to his host, 'I think I'd better be going.'
'Where are you bound for?' asked Mr. Peastraw.
'To Puddingpote Bower,' replied Mr. Sponge.
'S-o-o,' observed Mr. Peastraw thoughtfully; 'Mr. Crowdey's--Mr. Joggleburythat was?'
'Yes,' replied Mr. Sponge.
'He is a deuce of a man, that, for breaking people's hedges,' observed Mr.Peastraw; after a pause, 'he can't see a straight stick of no sort, buthe's sure to be at it.'
'He's a great man for walking-sticks,' replied Mr. Sponge, staggering inthe direction of the stable in which he put his horse.
The house clock then struck ten.
'She's fast,' observed Mr. Peastraw, fearing his guest might be wanting tostay all night.
'How far will Puddingpote Bower be from here?' asked Mr. Sponge.
'Oh, no distance, sir, no distance,' replied Mr. Peastraw, now leading outthe horse. 'Can't miss your way, sir--can't miss your way. First turn onthe right takes you to Collins' Green; then keep by the side of the church,next the pond; then go straight forward for about a mile and a half, or twomiles, till you come to a small village called Lea Green; turn short at thefinger-post as you enter, and keep right along by the side of the hillstill you come to the Winslow Woods; leave them to the left, and pass by Mr.Roby's farm, at Runton--you'll know Mr. Roby?'
'Not I,' replied Mr. Sponge, hoisting himself into the saddle, and holdingout a hand to take leave of his host.
'Good night, sir; good night!' exclaimed Mr. Peastraw, shaking it; 'andhave the goodness to tell Mr. Crowdey from me that the next time he comeshere a bush-rangin', I'll thank him to shut the gates after him. He set allmy young stock wrong the last time he was here.'
'I will,' replied Mr. Sponge, riding off.
Mr. Peastraw's directions were well calculated to confuse a clearer headthan Mr. Sponge then carried; and the reader will not be surprised to learnthat, long before he reached the Winslow Woods, he was regularlybewildered. Indeed, there is no surer way of losing oneself than trying tofollow a long train of directions in a strange country. It is far betterto establish one's own landmarks, and make for them as the natural courseof the country seems to direct. Our forefathers had a wonderful knack ofgetting to points with as little circumlocution as possible. Mr. Sponge,however, knew no points, and was quite at sea; indeed, even if he had, theywould have been of little use, for a fitful and frequently obscured moonthrew such bewildering lights and shades around, that a native would havehad some difficulty in recognizing the country. The frost grew moreintense, the stars shone clear and bright, and the cold took our friend bythe nape of the neck, shooting across his shoulder-blades and right downhis back. Mr. Sponge wished and wished he was anywhere but where hewas--flattening his nose against the coffee-room window of the Bantam,tooling in a hansom as hard as he could go, squaring along Oxford Streetcriticizing horses--nay, he wouldn't care to be undergoing Gustavus Jameshimself--anything, rather than rambling about a strange country in a coldwinter's night, with nothing but the hooting of owls and the occasionalbark of shepherds' dogs to enliven his solitude. The houses were few andfar between. The lights in the cottages had long been extinguished, and theoccupiers of such of the farmhouses as would come to his knocks were gruffin their answers, and short in their directions. At length, after riding,and riding, and riding, more with a view of keeping himself awake than inthe expectation of finding his way, just as he was preparing to arouse theinmates of a cottage by the roadside, a sudden gleam of moonlight fell uponthe building, revealing the half-Swiss, half-Gothic lodge of PuddingpoteBower.