good, sound-constitutioned horse, hard and firm as a
cricket-ball, a horse that would not turn a hair for a trifle even on a
hunting morning, let alone on such a thorough chiller as this one was; and
Mr. Sponge, after going along at a good round pace, and getting over the
ground much quicker than he did when the road was all new to him, and he
had to ask his way, at length drew in to see what o'clock it was. It was
only half-past nine, and already in the far distance he saw the encircling
woods of Nonsuch House.

'Shall be early,' said Mr. Sponge, returning his watch to his
waistcoat-pocket, and diving into his cutty coat-pocket for the cigar-case.
Having struck a light, he now laid the rein on the horse's neck and
proceeded leisurely along, the animal stepping gaily and throwing its head
about as if he was the quietest, most trustworthy nag in the world. If he
got there at half-past ten, Mr. Sponge calculated he would have plenty of
time to see after his horse, get his own breakfast, and see how the land
lay for a billet.

It would be impossible to hunt before twelve; so he went smoking and
sauntering along, now wondering whether he would be able to establish a
billet, now thinking how he would like to sell Sir Harry a horse, then
considering whether he would be likely to pay for him, and enlivening the
general reflections by ringing his spurs against his stirrup-irons.

Having passed the lodges at the end of the avenue, he cocked his hat,
twiddled his hair, felt his tie, and arranged for a becoming appearance.
The sudden turn of the road brought him full upon the house. How changed
the scene! Instead of the scarlet-coated youths thronging the gravelled
ring, flourishing their scented kerchiefs and 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, slatternly
charwoman, in an old black straw bonnet and grey bed-gown, opened one of
the shutters, and throwing up the sash of the window by where Mr.