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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, slat- 

 ternly charwoman, in an old black straw bonnet and grey bedgown, 

 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 can- 

 delabra 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 concomitants of a sumptuous 

 entertainment. 



"Sir Harry at home ? " asked Mr. Sponge, making the woman 

 sensible of his presence, by cracking his whip close to her ear. 



" No," replied the dame, gruffly, commencing an assault upon the 

 nearest chair with a duster. 



" Where is he ? " asked our friend. 



" Bed, to be sure," replied the woman, in the same tone. 



" Bed, to be sure," repeated Mr. Sponge. " I don't think there's 

 any ' sure ' in the case. Do you know what o'clock it is ? " asked he. 



" No," replied the woman, flopping away at another chair, and 

 arranging the crimson velvet curtains on the holders. 



Mr. Sponge was rather nonplussed. His red coat did not com- 

 mand the respect that a red coat generally does. The fact was, they 

 had such queer people in red coats at Nonsuch House, that a red 

 coat was rather an object of suspicion than otherwise. 



" Well, but my good woman," continued Mr. Sponge, softening 

 his tone, " can you tell me where I shall find anybody who can tell 

 me anything about the hounds ? " 



" No," growled the woman, still flopping, and whisking, and 

 knocking the furniture about. 



" I'll remember you for your trouble," observed Mr. Sponge, 

 diving his right hand into his breeches' pocket. 



" Mr. Bottleends be gone to bed," observed the woman, now 

 ceasing her evolutions, and parting her grisly, disordered tresses, as 

 she advanced and stood staring, with her arms akimbo, out of the 

 window. She was the under-housemaid's deputy ; all the servants 

 at Nonsuch House doing the rough of their work by deputy. Lady 

 Scattercash was a real lady, and liked to have the credit of the house 

 maintained, which of course can only be done by letting the upper 



