‘Yes, my sisters are going to the Christmas ball,’ &c., &c.
Still, nearly daft as Robert was, he was generally asked where there was anything going on; and more than one young la -- but we will not tell about that, as he has nothing to do with our story.
By the time the ladies took their departure, Mr Jawleyford had somewhat recovered from the annoyance of his disappointment; and as they retired he rang the bell, and desired Spigot to get in the horseshoe table, and bring a bottle of the ‘green seal,’ being the colour affixed on the bottles of a four-dozen hamper of port (‘curious old port at 48s.’) that had arrived from Wintle and Co. by rail (goods train of course) that morning.
‘There!’ exclaimed Jawleyford, as Spigot placed the richly-cut decanter on the horseshoe table. ‘There!’ repeated he, drawing the green curtain as if to shade it from the fire, but in reality to hide the dullness the recent shaking had given it; ‘that wine,’ said he, ‘is a quarter of a century in bottle, at the very least.’
‘Indeed,’ observed Sponge: ‘time it was drunk.’
‘A quarter of a century?’ gaped Robert Foozle.
‘Quarter of a century if it’s a day,’ replied Jawleyford, smacking his lips as he set down his glass after imbibing the precious beverage.
‘Very fine,’ observed Sponge; adding, as he sipped off his glass, ‘it’s odd to find such old wine so full- bodied.’
‘Well, now tell us all about your day’s proceedings,’ said Jawleyford, thinking it advisable to change the conversation at once. ‘What sport had you with my lord?’
‘Oh, why, I really can’t tell you much,’ drawled Sponge, with an air of bewilderment. ‘Strange country -- strange faces -- nobody I knew, and --’
‘Ah, true,’ replied Jawleyford, ‘true. It occurred to me after you were gone, that perhaps you might not know anyone. Ours, you see, is rather an out-of-the-way country; few of our people go to town, or indeed anywhere else; they are all tarry-at-home birds. But they’d receive you with great politeness, I’m sure -- if they knew you came from here, at least,’ added he.
Sponge was silent, and took a great gulp of the dull ‘Wintle,’ to save himself from answering.
‘Was my Lord Scamperdale out?’ asked Jawleyford, seeing he was not going to get a reply.
‘Why, I can really hardly tell you that,’ replied Sponge. ‘There were two men out, either of whom might be him; at least, they both seemed to take the lead, and -- and --’ he was going to say ‘blow up the people,’ but he thought he might as well keep that to himself.
‘Stout, hale-looking men, dressed much alike, with great broad tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles on?’ asked Jawleyford.
‘Just so,’ replied Sponge.
‘Ah, you are right, then,’ rejoined Jawleyford; ‘it would be my lord.’
‘And who was the other?’ enquired our friend.
‘Oh, that Jack Spraggon,’ replied Jawleyford, curling up his nose, as if he was going to be sick; ‘one of the most odious wretches under the sun. I really don’t know any man that I have so great a dislike to, so utter a contempt for, as that Jack, as they call him.’