156 mr. sponge's sporting tour. 



He stood for a few seconds transfixed to the spot, not knowing 

 what on earth to do. At last resolution came to his aid, and, rush- 

 ing up stairs to his dressing-room, he quickly divested himself of his 

 coat and waistcoat, and slipped on a dressing-gown and night-cap. 

 He then stood, door in hand, listening for the arrival. He could 

 just hear the gig grinding under the portico, and distinguish Jack's 

 gruff voice saying to the servant from the top of the steps — " We'll 

 start directly after breakfast, mind." A tremendous peal of the bell 

 immediately followed, convulsing the whole house, for nobody had 

 seen the vehicle approaching, and the establishment had fallen into 

 the usual state of undress torpor that intervenes between calling 

 hours and dinner-time. 



The bell not being answered as quickly as Jack expected, he just 

 opened the door himself; and when Spigot arrived, with such a force 

 as he could raise at the moment, Jack was in the act of u peeling " 

 himself, as he called it. 



" What time do we dine ? " asked he, with the air of a man with 

 the entree. 



" Seven o'clock, my lord — that's to say, sir — that's to say, my 

 lord," for Spigot really didn't know whether it was Jack or his mas- 

 ter. 



" Seven o'clock ! " muttered Jack " What the deuce is the use 

 of dinin' at such an hour as that in winter ? " 



Jack and my lord always dined as soon as they got home from 

 hunting. Jack, having got himself out of his wraps, and run his 

 bristles backwards with a pocket-comb, was ready for presentation. 



" What name shall I enounce ? " asked Mr. Spigot, fearful of 

 committing himself before the ladies. 



" Mister Spraggon, to .be sure," exclaimed Jack, thinking, be- 

 cause he knew who he was, that everybody else ought to know too. 



Spigot then led the way to the music-room. 



The peal at the bell had caused a suppressed commotion in the 

 apartment. Buried in the luxurious depths of a well-cushioned low 

 chair, Mr. Sponge sat, " Mogg " in hand, with a toe cocked up, now 

 dipping leisurely into his work — now whispering something sweet into 

 Amelia's ear, who sat with her crochet-work at his side ; while Emily 

 played the piano, and Mrs. Jawleyford kept in the background, in the 

 discreet way mothers do when there is a little business going on. 

 The room was in that happy state of misty light that usually pre- 

 cedes the entrance of candles — a light that no one likes to call dark- 

 ness, lest their eyes might be supposed to be failing. It is a con- 

 venient light, however, for a timid stranger, especially where there 

 are not many footstools set to trip him up — an exemption, we grieve 

 to say, not accorded to every one. 



Though Mr. Spraggon was such a cool, impudent fellow with men, 

 lie was the most awkward, frightened wretch among ladies that ever 



