‘Go it, you cripples! Newgate’s on fire!’ shouted Captain Quod.

‘Well, what said he?’ asked Sir Harry.

‘ ‘‘They commonly call me the Earl of Scamperdale,’’ roared he, ‘‘and those are my hounds.’’

‘ ‘‘They’re not your hounds,’’ replied I.

‘ ‘‘Whose are they, then?’’ asked he.

‘ ‘‘Sir Harry Scattercash’s, a devilish deal better fellow,’’ replied I.

‘ ‘‘Oh, by Jove!’’ roared he, ‘‘there’s an end of everything. Jack,’’ shouted he to old Spraggon, ‘‘this gentleman says these are not my hounds!’’

‘ ‘‘I’ll tell you what it is, my lord,’’ said I, gathering my whip and riding close up as if I was goin’ to pitch into him, ‘‘I’ll tell you what it is; you think, because you’re a lord, you may abuse people as you like, but by Jingo you’ve mistaken your man. I’ll not put up with any of your nonsense. The Sponges are as old a family as the Scamperdales, and I’ll fight you any non-hunting day you like with pistols, broadswords, fists, or blunder-busses.’’ ’

‘Well done you! Bravo! that’s your sort!’ with loud thumping of tables and clapping of hands, resounded from all parts.

‘By Jove, fill him up a stiff ’un! he deserves a good drink after that!’ exclaimed Sir Harry, pouring Mr Sponge out a beaker, equal parts brandy and water.

Mr Sponge immediately became a hero, and was freely admitted into their circle. He was clearly a choice spirit -- a trump of the first water -- and they only wanted his name to be uncommonly thick with him. As it was, they plied him with victuals and drink, all seeming anxious to bring him up to the same happy state of inebriety as themselves. They talked and they chattered, and they abused old Scamperdale and Jack Spraggon, and lauded Mr Sponge up to the skies.

Thus day closed in, with Farmer Peastraw’s bright fire shedding its cheering glow over the now encircling group. One would have thought, that with their hearts mellow, and their bodies comfortable, their minds would have turned to that sport in whose honour they sported the scarlet; but no, hunting was never mentioned. They were quite as genteel as Nimrod’s swell friends at Melton, who cut it altogether. They rambled from subject to subject, chiefly on indoor and London topics; billiards, betting-offices, Coal Holes, Cremorne, Cider Cellars, Judge and Jury Courts, there being an evident confusion in their minds between the characters of sportsmen and sporting men, or gents as they are called. Mr Sponge tried hard to get them on the right tack, were it only for the sake of singing the praises of the horse for which he had so often refused three hundred guineas, but he never succeeded in retaining a hearing. Talkers were far more plentiful than listeners.

At last they got to singing, and when men begin to sing, it is a sign that they are either drunk, or have had enough of each other’s company. Sir Harry’s hiccup, from which he was never wholly free, increased tenfold, and he hiccuped and spluttered at almost every word. His hand, which shook so at starting that it was odds whether he got his glass to his mouth or his ear, was now steadied, but his glazed eye and green haggard countenance showed at what a fearful sacrifice the temporary steadiness had been obtained. At last his jaw dropped on his, chest, his left arm hung listlessly over the back of the chair, and he fell asleep. Captain Quod, too, was overcome, and threw himself full-length on the sofa. Captain Seedybuck began to talk thick.

Just as they were all about brought to a standstill, the trampling of horses, the rumbling of wheels, and the shrill twang, twang, twang, of the now almost forgotten mail horn, roused them from their reveries.