‘But what shall I do with the hounds?’ asked Mr Sponge, looking down upon the confused pack, now crowding about his horse’s head.

‘Oh, let the beef-eaters -- the scene-shifters -- I meant to say the servants -- those fellows, you know, in scarlet and black caps, look after them,’ replied brother Bob Spangles.

‘But there are none of them here,’ exclaimed Mr Sponge, looking back on the deserted road.

‘None of them here!’ hiccuped Sir Harry, who had now got reeled to the window. ‘None of them here,’ repeated he, staring vacantly at the uneven pack. ‘Oh (hiccup), I’ll tell you what do -- (hiccup) them into a barn or a stable, or a (hiccup) of any sort, and we’ll send for them when we want to (hiccup) again.’

‘Then just you call them to you,’ replied Sponge, thinking they would go to their master. ‘Just you call them,’ repeated he, ‘and I’ll put them to you.’

‘(Hiccup) call to them?’ replied Sir Harry; ‘I can’t (hiccup).’

‘Oh, yes!’ rejoined Mr Sponge; ‘call one or two by their names, and the rest will follow.’

‘Names! (hiccup) I don’t know any of their nasty names,’ replied Sir Harry, staring wildly.

‘Towler! Towler! Towler! here, good dog -- hoop! -- here’s your liquor!’ cried brother Bob Spangles, holding the smoking tumbler of brandy-and-water out of the window, as if to tempt any hound that chose to answer to the name of Towler.

There didn’t seem to be a Towler in the pack; at least, none of them qualified for the brandy-and-water.

‘Oh, I’ll (hiccup) you what we’ll do,’ exclaimed Sir Harry; ‘I’ll (hiccup) you what we’ll do. We’ll just give them a (hiccup) kick a-piece and send them (hiccuping) home,’ Sir Harry, reeling back into the room to the black horse-hair sofa, where his whip was.

He presently appeared at the door, and, going into the midst of the hounds, commenced laying about him, rating, and cutting, and kicking, and shouting.

‘Geete away home with ye, ye brutes; what are you all (hiccup)ing here about? Ah! cut off his tail!’ cried he, staggering after a venerable blear-eyed sage, who dropped his stern and took off.

‘Be off! Does your mother know you’re out?’ cried Bob Spangles, out of the window, to old Marksman, who stood wondering what to do.

The old hound took the hint also.

‘Now, then, old feller,’ cried Sir Harry, staggering up to Mr Sponge, who still sat on his horse, in mute astonishment at Sir Harry’s mode of dealing with his hounds. ‘Now, then, old feller,’ said he, seizing Mr Sponge by the hand, ‘get rid of your quadruped, and (hiccup) in, and make yourself ‘‘o’er all the (hiccups) of life victorious,’’ as Bob Spangles says, when he (hiccups) it neat. This is old (hiccup) Peastraw’s, a (hiccup) tenant of mine, and he’ll be most (hiccup) to see you.’

‘But what must I do with my horse?’ asked Mr Sponge, rubbing some of the dried sweat off the brown’s shoulder as he spoke; adding, ‘I should like to get him a feed of corn.’

‘Give him some ale, and a (hiccup) of sherry in it,’ replied Sir Harry; ‘it’ll do him far more good -- make his mane grow,’ smoothing the horse’s thin, silky mane as he spoke.

‘Well, I’ll put him up,’ replied Mr Sponge, ‘and then come to you,’ throwing himself, jockey fashion, off the horse as he spoke.