encircling stand of
liqueur-glasses.

'Suppose you have a little of what we call laced tea, my lord--tea with a
dash of brandy in it?' suggested Mr. Springwheat.

'Laced tea,' repeated his lordship; 'laced tea: so I will,' said he.
'Deuced good idea--deuced good idea,' continued he, bringing the bottle and
seating himself on Mrs. Springwheat's right, while his host helped him to a
most plentiful plate of turkey and tongue. The table was now about full, as
was the room; the guests just rolling in as they would to a public-house,
and helping themselves to whatever they liked. Great was the noise of
eating.

As his lordship was in the full enjoyment of his plateful of meat, he
happened to look up, and, the space between him and the window being clear,
he saw something that caused him to drop his knife and fork and fall back
in his chair as if he was shot.

'My lord's ill!' exclaimed Mr. Springwheat, who, being the only man with
his nose up, was the first to perceive it.

'Clap him on the back!' shrieked Mrs. Springwheat, who considered that an
infallible recipe for the ailments of children.

'Oh, Mr. Spraggon!' exclaimed both, as they rushed to his assistance, 'what
is the matter with my lord?'

'Oh, that Mister something!' gasped his lordship, bending forward in his
chair, and venturing another glance through the window.

Sure enough, there was Sponge, in the act of dismounting from the piebald,
and resigning it with becoming dignity to his trusty groom, Mr. Leather,
who stood most respectfully--Parvo in hand--waiting to receive it.

Mr. Sponge, being of opinion that a red coat is a passport everywhere,
having stamped the mud sparks off his boots at the door, swaggered in with
the greatest coolness, exclaiming as he bobbed his head to the lady, and
looked round at the company:

'What, grubbing away! grubbing away, eh?'

'Won't you take a little refreshment?' asked Mr. Springwheat, in the hearty
way these hospitable fellows welcome everybody.

'Yes, I will,' replied Sponge, turning to the sideboard as though it were
an inn.' That's a monstrous fine ham,' observed he; 'why doesn't somebody
cut it?'

'Let me help you to some, sir,' replied Mr. Springwheat, seizing the
buck-handled knife and fork, and diving deep into the rich red meat with
the knife.

Mr. Sponge having got two bountiful slices, with a knotch of home-made
brown bread, and some mustard on his plate, now made for the table, and
elbowed himself