et-player, looking on at the
game, 'he shalln't ride roughshod over us.'

'That he shalln't!' exclaimed Caingey Thornton, Mr. Waffles's premier
toady, and constant trencherman.

'I'll ride him!' rejoined Mr. Spareneck, jockeying his arms, and
flourishing his whip as if he was at work, adding: 'his old brandy-nosed,
frosty-whiskered trumpeter of a groom says he's coming down by the five
o'clock train. I vote we go and meet him--invite him to a steeple-chase by
moonlight.'

'I vote we go and see him, at all events,' observed Frank Hoppey, laying
down his cue and putting on his coat, adding, 'I should like to see a man
bold enough to beard a whole hunt--especially such a hunt as _ours_.'

'Finish the game first,' observed Captain Macer, who had rather the best of
it.

'No, leave the balls as they are till we come back,' rejoined Ned Stringer;
'we shall be late. See, it's only ten _to_, now,' continued he, pointing to
the timepiece above the fire; whereupon there was a putting away of cues,
hurrying on of coats, seeking of hats, sorting of sticks, and a general
desertion of the room for the railway station.

[Illustration: MR. SPONGE ARRIVES AT LAVERICK WELLS]

CHAPTER VII

OUR HERO ARRIVES AT LAVERICK WELLS

Punctual to the moment, the railway train, conveying the redoubtable
genius, glid into the well-lighted, elegant little station of Laverick
Wells, and out of a first-class carriage emerged Mr. Sponge, in a 'down the
road' coat, carrying a horse-sheet wrapper in his hand. So small and
insignificant did the station seem after the gigantic ones of London, that
Mr. Sponge thought he had wasted his money in taking a first-class ticket,
seeing there was no one to know. Mr. Leather, who was in attendance, having
received him hat in hand, with all the deference due to the master of
twenty hunters, soon undeceived him on that point. Having eased him of his
wrapper, and inquired about his luggage, and despatched a porter for a fly,
they stood together over the portmanteau and hat-box till it arrived.

'How are the horses?' asked Sponge.

'Oh, the osses be nicely, sir,' replied Leather; 'they travelled down
uncommon well, and I've had 'em both removed sin they com'd, so either on
'em is fit to go i' the mornin' that you think proper.'

'Where are the hounds?' asked our hero.

''Ounds be at Whirleypool Windmill,' replied Leather, 'that's about five
miles off.'

'What sort of country is it?' inquired Sponge