‘Do you know where the cross-roads are?’ he asked his groom.

‘Cross-roads, cross-roads—­what cross-roads?’ replied Leather.

‘Where the hounds meet to-morrow.’

‘Oh, the cross-roads at Somethin’ Burn,’ rejoined Leather thoughtfully—­’no, ‘deed, I don’t,’ he added.  ’From all ’counts, they seem to be somewhere on the far side of the world.’

That was not a very encouraging answer; and feeling it would require a good deal of persuasion to induce Mr. Leather to go in search of them without clothing and the necessary requirements for his horses, Mr. Sponge went trotting on, in hopes of seeing some place where he might get a sight of the map of the county.  So they proceeded in silence, till a sudden turn of the road brought them to the spire and housetops of the little agricultural town of Barleyboll.  It differed nothing from the ordinary run of small towns.  It had a pond at one end, an inn in the middle, a church at one side, a fashionable milliner from London, a merchant tailor from the same place, and a hardware shop or two where they also sold treacle, Dartford gunpowder, pocket-handkerchiefs, sheep-nets, patent medicines, cheese, blacking, marbles, mole-traps, men’s hats, and other miscellaneous articles.  It was quite enough of a town, however, to raise a presumption that there would be a map of the county at the inn.

‘We’ll just put the horses up for a few minutes, I think,’ said Sponge, turning into the stable-yard at the end of the Red Lion Hotel and Posting House, adding, ‘I want to write a letter, and perhaps,’ said he, looking at his watch, ‘you may be wanting your dinner.’

Having resigned his horse to his servant, Mr. Sponge walked in, receiving the marked attention usually paid to a red coat.  Mine host left his bar, where he was engaged in the usual occupation of drinking with customers for the ‘good of the house.’  A map of the county, of such liberal dimensions, was speedily produced, as would have terrified any one unaccustomed to distances and scales on which maps are laid down.  For instance, Jawleyford Court, as the crow flies, was the same distance from the cross-roads at Dallington Burn as York was from London, in a map of England hanging beside it.

‘It’s a goodish way,’ said Sponge, getting a lighter off the chimney-piece, and measuring the distances.  ’From Jawleyford Court to Billingsborough Rise, say seven miles; from Billingsborough Rise to Downington Wharf, other seven; from Downington Wharf to Shapcot, which seems the nearest point, will be—­say five or six, perhaps—­nineteen or twenty in all.  Well, that’s my work,’ he observed, scratching his head, ’at least, my hack’s; and from here, home,’ he continued, measuring away as he spoke, ’will be twelve or thirteen.  Well, that’s nothing,’ he said.  ‘Now for the horse,’ he continued, again applying the lighter in a different direction.  ’From here to Hardington will be, say, eight miles; from Hardington to Bewley, other five; eight and five are thirteen; and there, I should say, he might sleep.  That would leave ten or twelve miles for the morning; nothing for a hack hunter; ’specially such a horse as that, and one that’s done nothing for I don’t know how long.’