‘Well, but I can see the footman or somebody, surely,’ observed Mr Sponge, fearing that his chance was out for a billet, and recollecting old Jog’s ‘Bartholo--m--e--ws!’ and ‘Murry Anns!’ and intimations for him to start.

‘ ’Deed you can’t,’ replied the dame - ‘ye can see nebody but me,’ added she, fixing her twinkling eyes intently upon him as she spoke.

‘Well, that’s a pretty go,’ observed Mr Sponge aloud to himself, ringing his spurs against his stirrup-irons.

‘Pretty go or ugly go,’ snapped the woman, thinking it was a reflection on herself, ‘it’s all you’ll get;’ and thereupon she gave the back of the chair a hearty bastinadoing as if in exemplification of the way she would like to serve Mr Sponge out for the observation.

‘I came here thinking to get some breakfast,’ observed Mr Sponge, casting an eye upon the disordered table, and reconoitring the bottles and the remains of the dessert.

‘Did you,’ said the woman; ‘I wish you may get it.’

‘I wish I may,’ replied he. ‘If you would manage that for me, just some coffee and a mutton chop or two, I’d remember you,’ said he, still tantalising her with the sound of the silver in his pocket.

‘Me manish it!’ exclaimed the woman, her hopes again rising at the sound; ‘me manish it! how d’ye think I’m to manish sich things?’ asked she.

‘Why, get at the cook, or the housekeeper, or somebody,’ replied Mr Sponge.

‘Cook or housekeeper!’ exclaimed she. ‘There’ll be no cook or housekeeper astir here these many hours yet; I question,’ added she, ‘they get up today.’

‘What! they’ve been put to bed too, have they?’ asked he.

‘W-h-y no -- not zactly that,’ drawled the woman; ‘but when sarvants are kept up three nights out of four, they must make up for lost time when they can.’

‘Well,’ mused Mr Sponge, ‘this is a bother, at all events; get no breakfast, lose my hunt, and perhaps a billet into the bargain. Well, there’s sixpence for you, my good woman,’ said he at length, drawing his hand out of his pocket and handing her the contents through the window; adding, ‘don’t make a beast of yourself with it.’

‘It’s nabbut fourpence,’ observed the woman, holding it out on the palm of her hand.

‘Ah, well, you’re welcome to it whatever it is,’ replied our friend, turning his horse to go away. A thought then struck him. ‘Could you get me a pen and ink, think you?’ asked he; ‘I want to write a line to Sir Harry.’

‘Pen and ink!’ replied the woman, who had pocketed the groat and resumed her dusting; ‘I don’t know where they keep no such things as penses and inkses.’

‘Most likely in the drawing-room or the sitting-room, or perhaps in the butler’s pantry,’ observed Mr Sponge.

‘Well, you can come in and see,’ replied the woman, thinking there was no occasion to give herself any more trouble for the fourpenny-piece.

Our worthy friend sat on his horse a few seconds staring intently into the dining-room window, thinking that lapse of time might cause the fourpenny-piece to be sufficiently respected to procure him something like directions how to proceed as well to get rid of his horse, as to procure access to the house, the