It was not often that Jack got a ‘bite’ at my lord, which, perhaps, made him think it the more incumbent on him not to miss an opportunity.  Having been told, of course he knew exactly the style of man he had to deal with in Mr. Sponge—­a style of men of whom there is never any difficulty in asking if they will sell their horses, price being the only consideration.  They are, indeed, a sort of unlicensed horse-dealers, from whose presence few hunts are wholly free.  Mr. Spraggon thought if he could get Sponge to make it worth his while to get my lord to buy his horses, the—­whatever he might get—­would come in very comfortably to pay his Christmas bills.

By the time the bottle drew to a close, our friends were rather better friends, and seemed more inclined to fraternize.  Jack had the advantage of Sponge, for he could stare, or rather squint, at him without Sponge knowing it.  The pint of wine apiece—­at least, as near a pint apiece as Spigot could afford to let them have—­somewhat strung Jack’s nerves as well as his eyes, and he began to show more of the pupils and less of the whites than he did.  He buzzed the bottle with such a hearty good will as settled the fate of another, which Sponge rang for as a matter of course.  There was but the rejected one, which, however.  Spigot put into a different decanter, and brought in with such an air as precluded either of them saying a word in disparagement of it.

‘Where are the hounds next week?’ asked Sponge, sipping away at it.

’Monday, Larkhall Hill; Tuesday, the cross-roads by Dallington Burn; Thursday, the Toll-bar at Whitburrow Green; Saturday, the kennels,’ replied Jack.

‘Good places?’ asked Sponge.

‘Monday’s good,’ replied Jack; ’draw Thorney Gorse—­sure find; second draw, Barnlow Woods, and home by Loxley, Padmore, and so on.’

‘What sort of a place is Tuesday?’

‘Tuesday?’ repeated Jack.  ’Tuesday!  Oh, that’s the cross-roads.  Capital place, unless the fox takes to Rumborrow Craigs, or gets into Seedywood Forest, when there’s an end of it—­at least, an end of everything except pulling one’s horse’s legs off in the stiff clayey rides.  It’s a long way from here, though,’ observed Jack.

‘How far?’ asked Sponge.

‘Good twenty miles,’ replied Jack.  ’It’s sixteen from us; it’ll be a good deal more from here.’

‘His lordship will lay out overnight, then?’ observed Sponge.

‘Not he,’ replied Jack.  ’Takes better care of his sixpences than that.  Up in the dark, breakfast by candlelight, grope our ways to the stable, and blunder along the deep lanes, and through all the by-roads in the country—­get there somehow or another.’

‘Keen hand!’ observed Sponge.

‘Mad!’ replied Jack.

They then paid their mutual respects to the port.

‘He hunts there on Tuesdays,’ observed Jack, setting down his glass, ’so that he may have all Wednesday to get home in, and be sure of appearing on Thursday.  There’s no saying where he may finish with a cross-roads’ meet.’