Spigot, at this moment entering to announce tea and coffee, was interrupted in his oration by Sponge demanding some brandy.

‘Sorry,’ replied Spigot, pretending to be quite taken by surprise, ‘very sorry, sir -- but, sir -- master, sir -- bed, sir -- disturb him, sir.’

‘Oh, dash it, never mind that!’ exclaimed Jack; ‘tell him Mr Sprag -- Sprag -- Spraggon’ (the bottle of port beginning to make Jack rather inarticulate) -- ‘tell him Mr Spraggon wants a little.’

‘Dursn’t disturb him, sir,’ responded Spigot, with a shake of his head; ‘Much as my place, sir, is worth, sir.’

‘Haven’t you a little drop in your pantry, think you?’ asked Sponge.

‘The cook perhaps has,’ replied Mr Spigot, as if it was quite out of his line.

‘Well, go and ask her,’ said Sponge; ‘and bring some hot water and things, the same as we had last night, you know.’

Mr Spigot retired, and presently returned, bearing a tray with three-quarters of a bottle of brandy, which he impressed upon their minds was the ‘cook’s own.’

‘I dare say,’ hiccupped Jack, holding the bottle up to the light.

‘Hope she wasn’t using it herself,’ observed Sponge.

‘Tell her we’ll (hiccup) her health,’ hiccuped Jack, pouring a liberal potation into his tumbler.

‘That’ll be all you’ll do, I dare say,’ muttered Spigot to himself, as he sauntered back to his pantry.

‘Does Jaw stand smoking?’ asked Jack, as Spigot disappeared.

‘Oh I should think so,’ replied Sponge; ‘a friend like you I’m sure, would be welcome’ -- Sponge thinking to indulge in a cigar, and lay the blame on Jack.

‘Well, if you think so,’ said Jack, pulling out his cigar-case, or rather his lordship’s, and staggering to the chimney-piece for a match, though there was a candle at his elbow, ‘I’ll have a pipe.’

‘So’ll I,’ said Sponge, ‘if you’ll give me a cigar.’

‘Much yours as mine,’ replied Jack, handing him his lordship’s richly embroidered case with coronets and ciphers on either side, the gift of one of the many would-be Lady Scamperdales.

‘Want a light!’ hiccupped Jack, who had now got a glowworm end to his.

‘Thanks,’ said Sponge, availing himself of the friendly overture.

Our friends now whiffed and puffed away together -- whiffing and puffing where whiffing and puffing had never been known before. The brandy began to disappear pretty quickly; it was better than the wine.

‘That’s a n-n-nice-ish horse of yours,’ stammered Jack, as he mixed himself a second tumbler.

‘Which?’ asked Sponge.

‘The bur-bur-brown,’ spluttered Jack.

‘He is that,’ replied Sponge; ‘best horse in this country by far.’