‘Well,’ replied Sponge, ’I’ll take the same for the chestnut; there isn’t the toss-up of a halfpenny for choice between them.’

‘Well,’ said Jack,’ we’ll s—­s—­s—­see them next week.’

‘Just so,’ said Sponge.

‘You r—­r—­ride well up to the h—­h—­hounds,’ continued Jack; ’and let his lordship s—­s—­see w—­w—­what they can do.’

‘I will,’ said Sponge, wishing he was at work.

‘Never mind his rowing,’ observed Jack; ‘he c—­c—­can’t help it.’

‘Not I,’ replied Sponge, puffing away at his cigar.

When men once begin to drink brandy-and-water (after wine) there’s an end of all note of time.  Our friends—­for we ‘may now call them so,’ sat sip, sip, sipping—­mix, mix, mixing; now strengthening, now weakening, now warming, now flavouring, till they had not only finished the hot water but a large jug of cold, that graced the centre of the table between two frosted tumblers, and had nearly got through the brandy too.

‘May as well fi—­fi—­fin—­nish the bottle,’ observed Jack, holding it up to the candle.  ‘Just a thi—­thi—­thim—­bleful apiece,’ added he, helping himself to about three-quarters of what there was.

‘You’ve taken your share,’ observed Sponge, as the bottle suspended payment before he got half the quantity that Jack had.

‘Sque—­ee—­eze it,’ replied Jack, suiting the action to the word, and working away at an exhausted lemon.

At length they finished.

‘Well, I s’pose we may as well go and have some tea,’ observed Jack.

‘It’s not announced yet,’ said Sponge, ’but I make no doubt it will be ready.’

So saying, the worthies rose, and, after sundry bumps and certain irregularities of course, they each succeeded in reaching the door.  The passage lamp had died out and filled the corridor with its fragrance.  Sponge, however, knew the way, and the darkness favored the adjustment of cravats and the fingering of hair.  Having got up a sort of drunken simper, Sponge opened the drawing-room door, expecting to find smiling ladies in a blaze of light.  All, however, was darkness, save the expiring embers in the grate.  The tick, tick, tick, ticking of the clocks sounded wonderfully clear.

‘Gone to bed!’ exclaimed Sponge.

‘WHO-HOOP!’ shrieked Jack, at the top of his voice.

‘What’s smatter, gentlemen?—­What’s smatter?’ exclaimed Spigot rushing in, rubbing his eyes with one hand, and holding a block tin candlestick in the other.

‘Nothin’,’ replied Jack, squinting his eyes inside out; adding, ’get me a devilled—­’ (hiccup).

‘Don’t know how to do them here, sir,’ snapped Spigot.

‘Devilled turkey’s leg though you do, you rascal!’ rejoined Jack, doubling his fists and putting himself in posture.

‘Beg pardon, sir,’ replied Spigot, ’but the cook, sir, is gone to bed, sir.  Do you know, sir, what o’clock it is, sir?’