Sponge
sat, disclosed the contents of the apartment. The last waxlight was just
dying out in the centre of a splendid candelabra 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.

[Illustration: MR. SPONGE'S RED COAT COMMANDS NO RESPECT]

'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 command 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 servants do nothing. 'Mr. Bottleends be gone to bed,'
observed the woman.

'Mr. Bottleends?' repeated Mr. Sponge; 'who's he?'

'The butler, to be sure,' replied she, astonished that any person should
have to ask who such an important personage was.

'Can't you call him?' asked Mr. Sponge, still fumbling in his pocket.

'Couldn't, if it was ever so,' replied the dame, smoothing her dirty
blue-checked apron with her still dir