perambulations consist of a circuit, commencing from the Bantam Hotel in
Bond Street into Piccadilly, through Leicester Square, and so on to
Aldridge's, in St. Martin's Lane, thence by Moore's sporting-print shop,
and on through some of those ambiguous and tortuous streets that, appearing
to lead all ways at once and none in particular, land the explorer, sooner
or later, on the south side of Oxford Street.

Oxford Street acts to the north part of London what the Strand does to the
south: it is sure to bring one up, sooner or later. A man can hardly get
over either of them without knowing it. Well, Soapey having got into Oxford
Street, would make his way at a squarey, in-kneed, duck-toed, sort of pace,
regulated by the bonnets, the vehicles, and the equestrians he met to
criticize; for of women, vehicles, and horses, he had voted himself a
consummate judge. Indeed, he had fully established in his own mind that
Kiddey Downey and he were the only men in London who _really_ knew anything
about, horses, and fully impressed with that conviction, he would halt, and
stand, and stare, in a way that with any other man would have been
considered impertinent. Perhaps it was impertinent in Soapey--we don't mean
to say it wasn't--but he had done it so long, and was of so sporting a gait
and cut, that he felt himself somewhat privileged. Moreover, the majority
of horsemen are so satisfied with the animals they bestride, that they cock
up their jibs and ride along with a 'find any fault with either me or my
horse, if you can' sort of air.

Thus Mr. Sponge proceeded leisurely along, now nodding to this man, now
jerking his elbow to that, now smiling on a phaeton, now sneering at a
'bus. If he did not look in at Shackell's or Bartley's, or any of the
dealers on the line, he was always to be found about half-past five at
Cumberland Gate, from whence he would strike leisurely down the Park, and
after coming to a long check at Rotten Row rails, from whence he would pass