d to ride over to
Nonsuch House to breakfast, which would give his horse half an hour in the
stable to eat a feed of corn. Accordingly, he desired Leather to bring him
his shaving-water, and have the horse ready in the stable in half an hour,
whither, in due time, Mr. Sponge emerged by the back door, without
encountering any of the family. The ambling piebald looked so crestfallen
and woebegone in all the swaddling-clothes in which Leather had got him
enveloped, that Mr. Sponge did not care to look at the gallant Hercules,
who occupied a temporary loose-box at the far end of the dark stable, lest
he might look worse. He, therefore, just mounted Multum-in-Parvo as Leather
led him out at the door, and set off without a word.

'Well, hang me, but you are a good judge of weather,' exclaimed Sponge to
himself, as he got into the field at the back of the house, and found the
horse made little impression on the grass. '_No frost!_' repeated he,
breathing into the air; 'why it's freezing now, out of the sun.'

On getting into Marygold Lane, our friend drew rein, and was for turning
back, but the resolute chestnut took the bit between his teeth and shook
his head, as if determined to go on.

'Oh, you brute!' growled Mr. Sponge, letting the spurs into his sides with
a hearty good-will, which caused the animal to kick, as if he meant to
stand on his head. 'Ah, you _will_, will ye?' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, letting
the spurs in again as the animal replaced his legs on the ground. Up they
went again, if possible higher than before.

The brute was clearly full of mischief, and even if the hounds did not
throw off, which there was little prospect of their doing from the
appearance of the weather, Mr. Sponge felt that it would be well to get
some of the nonsense taken out of him; and, moreover, going to Nonsuch
House would give him a chance of establishing a billet there--a chance that
he had been deprived of by Sir Harry's abrupt departure from Farmer
Peastraw's. So saying, our friend gathered his horse together, and settling
himself in his saddle, made his sound hoofs ring upon the hard road.

'He _may_ hunt,' thought Mr. Sponge, as he rattled along; 'such a rum
beggar as Sir Harry may think it fun to go out in a frost. It's hard, too,'
said he, as he saw the poor turnip-pullers enveloped in their thick shawls,
and watched them thumping their arms against their sides to drive the cold
from their finger-ends.

Multum-in-Parvo was a