370 MB. SPONGE'S SPORTING TOUR. 



and firm as a cricket-ball, a horse that would not turn a hair for a 

 trifle even on a hunting morning, let alone on such a thorough 

 chiller as this one was ; and Mr. Sponge, after goiug along at a 

 good round pace, and getting over the ground much quicker than 

 he did when the road was all new to him, and he had to ask his 

 way, at length drew in to see what o'clock it was. It was only 

 half-past nine, and already in the far distance he saw the encircling 

 woods of Nonsuch House. 



" Shall be early," said Mr. Sponge, returning his watch to his 

 waistcoat-pocket, and diving into his cutty coat-pocket for the 

 cigar-case. . Having struck a light, he now laid the rein on the 

 horse's neck and proceeded leisurely along, the animal stepping 

 gaily and throwing its head about as if he was the quietest, most 

 trustworthy nag in the world. If he got there at half-past ten, 

 Mr. Sponge calculated he would have plenty of time to see after his 

 horse, get his own breakfast, and see how the land lay for a billet. 



It would be impossible to hunt before twelve ; so he went smok- 

 ing and sauntering along, now wondering whether he would be 

 able to establish a billet, now thinking how he would like to sell 

 Sir Harry a horse, then considering whether he would be likely to 

 pay for him, and enlivening the general reflections by ringing his 

 spurs against his stirrup-irons. 



Having passed the lodges at the end of the avenue, he cocked 

 his hat, twiddled his hair, felt his tie, and arranged for a becoming 

 appearance. The sudden turn of the road brought him full upon 

 the house. How changed the scene ! Instead of the scarlet- 

 coated youths thronging the gravelled ring, flourishing their 

 scented kerchiefs and hunting-whips — instead of buxom Abigails 

 and handsome mistresses hanging out of the windows, flirting and 

 chatting and ogling, the door was shut, the blinds were down, the 

 shutters closed, and the whole house had the appearance of 

 mourning. 



Mr. Sponge reined up involuntarily, startled at the change of 

 scene. What could have happened ! Could Sir Harry be dead ? 

 Could my lady have eloped ? "Oh, that horrid Bugles ! " thought 

 he ; "he looked like a gay deceiver." And Mr. Sponge felt as if 

 he had sustained a personal injury. 



Just as these thoughts were passing in his mind, a drowsy, 

 slatternly charwoman, in an old black straw bonnet and grey bed- 

 gown, opened one of the shutters, and throwing up the sash of 

 the window by where Mr. Sponge sat, disclosed the contents of 

 the apartment. The last waxlight was just dying out in the 

 centre of a splendid candelabra on the middle of a table scattered 

 about with claret-jugs, glasses, decanters, pine-apple tops, grape- 

 dishes, cakes, anchovy-toast plates, devilled biscuit-racks — all the 

 concomitaiits.of a sumptuous entertainment. 



