‘Good morning,’ said he to that worthy, as he saw the whites of his eyes showing through his spectacles.

‘Mornin’,’ muttered Jack, as if his mouth was either too full to articulate, or he didn’t want to have anything to say to Mr. Sponge.

‘Here’s a fine hunting morning, my lord,’ observed Sponge, addressing himself to his lordship, who sat on Jack’s left.

‘Here’s a very fine hunting morning, my lord,’ repeated Sponge, not getting an answer to his first assertion.

‘Is it?’ blurted his lordship, pretending to be desperately busy with the contents of his plate, though in reality his appetite was gone.

A dead pause now ensued, interrupted only by the clattering of knives and forks, and the occasional exclamations of parties in want of some particular article of food.  A chill had come over the scene—­a chill whose cause was apparent to every one, except the worthy host and hostess, who had not heard of Mr. Sponge’s descent upon the country.  They attributed it to his lordship’s indisposition, and Mr. Springwheat endeavoured to cheer him up with the prospect of sport.

‘There’s a brace, if not a leash, of foxes in cover, my lord,’ observed he, seeing his lordship was only playing with the contents of his plate.

‘Is there?’ exclaimed his lordship, brightening up:  ’let’s be at ’em!’ added he, jumping up and diving under the side-table for his flat hat and heavy iron hammer-headed whip.  ‘Good morning, my dear Mrs. Springwheat,’ exclaimed he, putting on his hat and seizing both her soft fat-fingered hands and squeezing them ardently.  ’Good morning, my dear Mrs. Springwheat,’ repeated he, adding, ’By Jove! if ever there was an angel in petticoats, you’re her; I’d give a hundred pounds for such a wife as you!  I’d give a thousand pounds for such a wife as you!  By the powers!  I’d give five thousand pounds for such a wife as you!’ With which asseverations his lordship stamped away in his great clumsy boots, amidst the ill-suppressed laughter of the party.

‘No hurry, gentlemen—­no hurry,’ observed Mr. Springwheat, as some of the keen ones were preparing to follow, and began sorting their hats, and making the mistakes incident to their being all the same shape.  ’No hurry, sir—­no hurry, sir,’ repeated Springwheat, addressing Mr. Sponge specifically; ’his lordship will have a talk to his hounds yet, and his horse is still in the stable.’

With this assurance Mr. Sponge resumed his seat at the table, where several of the hungry ones were plying their knives and forks as if they were indeed breaking their fasts.

‘Well, old boy, and how are you?’ asked Sponge, as the whites of Jack’s eyes again settled upon him, on the latter’s looking up from his plateful of sausages.

‘Nicely.  How are you?’ asked Jack.

‘Nicely too,’ replied Sponge, in the laconic way men speak who have been engaged in some common enterprise—­getting drunk, pelting people with rotten eggs, or anything of that sort.