Mr. Sponge was taken aback, for he had never seen a conscientious livery-stable helper before, and did not believe in the existence of such articles.  However, here was Mr. Leather assuming a virtue, whether he had it or not; and Mr. Sponge being in the man’s power, of course durst not quarrel with him.  It was clear that Leather would not go; and the question was, what should Mr. Sponge do?  ‘Why shouldn’t I go myself?’ he thought, shutting his eyes, as if to keep his faculties free from outward distraction.  He ran the thing quickly over in his mind.  ’What Leather can do, I can do,’ he said, remembering that a groom never demeaned himself by working where there was an ostler.  ’These things I have on will do quite well for to-morrow, at least among such rough-and-ready dogs as the Flat Hat men, who seem as if they had their clothes pitched on with a fork.’

His mind was quickly made up, and calling for pen, ink, and paper, he wrote a hasty note to Jawleyford, explaining why he would not cast up till the morrow; he then got the chestnut out of the stable, and desiring the ostler to give the note to Leather, and tell him to go home with his hack, he just rode out of the yard without giving Leather the chance of saying ‘nay.’  He then jogged on at a pace suitable to the accurate measurement of the distance.

The horse seemed to like having Sponge’s red coat on better than Leather’s brown, and champed his bit, and stepped away quite gaily.

‘Confound it!’ exclaimed Sponge, laying the rein on its neck, and leaning forward to pat him; ’it’s a pity but you were always in this humour—­you’d be worth a mint of money if you were.’  He then resumed his seat in the saddle, and bethought him how he would show them the way on the morrow.  ’If he doesn’t beat every horse in the field, it shan’t be my fault,’ thought he; and thereupon he gave him the slightest possible touch with the spur, and the horse shot away up a strip of grass like an arrow.

‘By Jove, but you can go!’ said he, pulling up as the grass ran out upon the hard road.

Thus he reached the village of Hardington, which he quickly cleared, and took the well-defined road to Bewley—­a road adorned with milestones and set out with a liberal horse-track at either side.

Day had closed ere our friend reached Bewley, but the children returning from school, and the country folks leaving their work, kept assuring him that he was on the right line, till the lights of the town, bursting upon him as he rounded the hill above, showed him the end of his journey.

The best stalls at the head inn—­the Bull’s Head—­were all full, several trusty grooms having arrived with the usual head-stalls and rolls of clothing on their horses, denoting the object of their mission.  Most of the horses had been in some hours, and were now standing well littered up with straw, while the grooms were in the tap talking over their masters, discussing the merits of their horses, or arguing whether Lord Scamperdale was mad or not.  They had just come to the conclusion that his lordship was mad, but not incapable of taking care of his affairs, when the trampling of Sponge’s horse’s feet drew them out to see who was coming next.  Sponge’s red coat at once told his tale, and procured him the usual attention.