him to a most plentiful plate of turkey and tongue. The table was now about full, as was the room; the guests just rolling in as they would to a public-house, and helping themselves to whatever they liked. Great was the noise of eating.

As his lordship was in the full enjoyment of his plateful of meat, he happened to look up, and, the space between him and the window being clear, he saw something that caused him to drop his knife and fork and fall back in his chair as if he was shot.

‘My lord’s ill!’ exclaimed Mr Springwheat, who, being the only man with his nose up, was the first to perceive it.

‘Clap him on the back!’ shrieked Mrs Springwheat, who considered that an infallible recipe for the ailments of children.

‘Oh, Mr Spraggon!’ exclaimed both, as they rushed to his assistance, ‘what is the matter with my lord?’

‘Oh that Mister something!’ gasped his lordship, bending forward in his chair, and venturing another glance through the window.

Sure enough, there was Sponge, in the act of dismounting from the piebald, and resigning it with becoming dignity to his trusty groom, Mr Leather, who stood most respectfully -- Parvo in hand -- waiting to receive it.

Mr Sponge, being of opinion that a red coat is a passport everywhere, having stamped the mud sparks off his boots at the door, swaggered in with the greatest coolness, exclaiming, as he bobbed his head to the lady, and looked round at the company --

‘What, grubbing away! grubbing away, eh?’

‘Won’t you take a little refreshment?’ asked Mr Springwheat, in the hearty way these hospitable fellows welcome everybody.

‘Yes, I will,’ replied Sponge, turning to the sideboard as though it were an inn. ‘That’s a monstrous fine ham,’ observed he; ‘why doesn’t somebody cut it?’

‘Let me help you to some, sir,’ replied Mr Springwheat, seizing the buck-handled knife and fork, and diving deep into the rich red meat with the knife.

Mr Sponge having got two bountiful slices, with a knotch of homemade brown bread, and some mustard on his plate, now made for the table, and elbowed himself into a place between Mr Fossick and Sparks, immediately opposite Mr Spraggon.

‘Good-morning,’ said he to that worthy, as he saw the whites of his eyes showing through his spectacles.

‘Mornin’ ’muttered Jack, as if his mouth was either too full to articulate, or he didn’t want to have anything to say to Mr Sponge.

‘Here’s a fine hunting morning my lord,’ observed Sponge, addressing himself to his lordship, who sat on Jack’s left.

‘Here’s a very fine hunting morning, my lord,’ repeated Sponge, not getting an answer to his first assertion.

‘Is it?’ blurted his lordship, pretending to be desperately busy with the contents of his plate, though in reality his appetite was gone.