Away they rumble up the Edgeware Road; the gradual emergence from the brick
and mortar of London being marked as well by the telling out of passengers
as by the increasing distances between the houses. First, it is all close
huddle with both. Austere iron railings guard the subterranean kitchen
areas, and austere looks indicate a desire on the part of the passengers to
guard their own pockets; gradually little gardens usurp the places of the
cramped areas, and, with their humanizing appearance, softer looks assume
the place of frowning _anti_ swell-mob ones.

Presently a glimpse of green country or of distant hills may be caught
between the wider spaces of the houses, and frequent settings down increase
the space between the passengers; gradually conservatories appear and
conversation strikes up; then come the exclusiveness of villas, some
detached and others running out at last into real pure green fields studded
with trees and picturesque pot-houses, before one of which latter a sudden
wheel round and a jerk announces the journey done. The last passenger (if
there is one) is then unceremoniously turned loose upon the country.

Our readers will have the kindness to suppose our hero, Mr. Sponge, shot
out of an omnibus at the sign of the Cat and Compasses, in the full
rurality of grass country, sprinkled with fallows and turnip-fields. We
should state that this unwonted journey was a desire to pay a visit to Mr.
Benjamin Buckram, the horse-dealer's farm at Scampley, distant some mile
and a half from where he was set down, a space that he now purposed
travelling on foot.

Mr. Benjamin Buckram was a small horse-dealer--small, at least, when he was
buying, though great when he was selling. It would do a youngster good to
see Ben filling the two capacities. He dealt in second hand, that is to