Neighbouring masters of hounds are often more or less jealous of each other. 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. 'Oh no!--fell soft--fell soft. More dirt, less hurt--more dirt, less hurt.' 'Why, you've been in a bog!' exclaimed Mr. Puffington, eyeing the much-stained Hercules. 'Almost over head,' replied Sponge. 'Scamperdale saw me going, and hadn't the grace to halloa.' 'Ah, that's like him,' replied Mr. Puffington, 'that's like him: there's nothing pleases him so much as getting fellows into grief.' 'Not very polite to a stranger,' observed Mr. Sponge. 'No, it isn't,' replied Mr. Puffington, 'no, it isn't; far from it indeed--far from it; but, low be it spoken,' added he, 'his lordship is only a roughish sort of customer.' 'So he is,' replied Mr. Sponge, who thought it fine to abuse a nobleman. 'The fact is,' said Mr. Puffington, 'these Flat Hat chaps are all snobs. They think there are no such fine fellows as themselves under the sun; and if ever a stranger looks near them, they make a point of being as rude and disagreeable to him as they possibly can. This is what they call keeping the hunt select.' 'Indeed,' observed Mr. Sponge, recollecting how they had complimented him, adding, 'they seem a queer set.' 'There's a fellow they call "Jack,"' observed Mr. Puffington, 'who acts as a sort of bulldog to his lordship, and worries whoever his lordship sets him upon. He got into a clay-hole a little farther back, and a precious splashing he was making, along with the chaplain, old Blossomnose.' 'Ah, I saw him,' observed Mr. Sponge. 'You should come and see _my_ hounds,' observed Mr. Puffington.