‘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 dirtier hand.

‘Why not?’ asked Mr Sponge.

‘Why not?’ repeated the woman; ‘why, ’cause Mr Bottleends won’t be disturbed by no one. He said when he went to bed that he hadn’t to be called till tomorrow.’

‘Not called till tomorrow!’ exclaimed Mr Sponge; ‘then is Sir Harry from home?’

‘From home, no; what should put that i’ your head?’ sneered the woman.

‘Why, if the butler’s in bed, one may suppose the master’s away.’

‘Hout!’ snapped the woman; ‘Sir Harry’s i’ bed -- Captin Seedeybuck’s i’ bed -- Captin Quod’s i’ bed -- Captin Spangle’s i’ bed -- Captin Bouncey’s i’ bed -- Captin Cutitfat’s i’bed -- they’re all i’ bed ’cept me, and I’ve got the house to clean and right, and high time it was cleaned and righted, for they’ve not been i’ bed these three nights any on ’em.’ So saying, she flourished her duster as if about to set-to again.

‘Well, but tell me,’ exclaimed Mr Sponge, ‘can I see the footman, or the huntsman, or the groom, or a helper, or anybody.’

‘Deary knows,’ replied the woman, thoughtfully, resting her chin on her hand. ‘I dare say they’ll be all i’ bed too.’

‘But they are going to hunt, aren’t they?’ asked our friend.

‘Hunt!’ exclaimed the woman; ‘what should put that i’ your head.’

‘Why, they sent me word they were.’

‘It’ll be i’ bed then,’ observed she, again giving symptoms of a desire to return to her dusting.

Mr Sponge, who still kept his hand in his pocket, sat on his horse in a state of stupid bewilderment. He had never seen a case of this sort before -- a house shut up, and a master of hounds in bed when the hounds were to meet before the door. It couldn’t be the case: the woman must be dreaming, or drunk, or both.

‘Well, but my good woman,’ exclaimed he, as she gave a punishing cut at the chair, as if to make up for lost time; ‘well, but my good woman, I wish you would try and find somebody who can tell me something about the hounds. I’m sure they must be going to hunt. I’ll remember you for your trouble, if you will,’ added he, again diving his hand up to the wrist in his pocket.

‘I tell you,’ replied the woman slowly and deliberately, ‘there’ll be no huntin’ today. Huntin’!’ exclaimed she; ‘how can they hunt when they’ve all had to be carried to bed.’

‘Carried to bed! had they?’ exclaimed Mr Sponge; ‘what, were they drunk?’

‘Drunk! aye, to be sure. What would you have them be?’ replied the crone, who seemed to think that drinking was a necessary concomitant of hunting.