‘We’d better pull up and walk the horses gently in, p’raps,’ observed Sponge, reining his in.

‘Ah!  I was only wantin’ to get home before the rest,’ observed Jack, pulling up too.

They then proceeded more leisurely together.

‘We’d better get into one of our bedrooms to do it,’ observed Jack, as they passed the lodge.  ‘Just so,’ replied Sponge, adding, ’I dare say we shall want all the quiet we can get.’

‘Oh no!’ said Jack; ’the thing’s simple enough—­met at such a place—­found at such another—­killed at so and so.’

‘Well, I hope it will,’ said Sponge, riding into the stable-yard, and resigning his steed to the care of his groom.

[Illustration]

Jack did the same by Sponge’s other horse, which he had been riding, and in reply to Leather’s inquiry (who stood with his right hand ready, as if to shake hands with him), ‘how the horse had carried him?’ replied: 

‘Cursed ill,’ and stamped away without giving him anything.

‘Ah, you’re a gen’leman, you are,’ muttered Leather, as he led the horse away.  ‘Now, come!’ exclaimed Jack to Sponge, ’come! let’s get in before any of those bothersome fellows come’; adding, as he dived into a passage, ‘I’ll show you the back way.’

After passing a scullery, a root-house, and a spacious entrance-hall, upon a table in which stood the perpetual beer-jug and bread-basket, a green baize door let them into the regions of upper service, and passing the dashed carpets of the housekeeper’s room and butler’s pantry, a red baize door let them into the far-side of the front entrance.  Having deposited their hats and whips, they bounded up the richly carpeted staircase to their rooms.

Hanby House, as we have already said, was splendidly furnished.  All the grandeur did not run to the entertaining rooms; but each particular apartment, from the state bedroom down to the smallest bachelor snuggery, was replete with elegance and comfort.

Like many houses, however, the bedrooms possessed every imaginable luxury except boot-jacks and pens that would write.  In Sponge’s room for instance, there were hip-baths, and foot-baths, a shower-bath, and hot and cold baths adjoining, and mirrors innumerable; an eight-day mantel-clock, by Moline of Geneva, that struck the hours, half-hours, and quarters:  cut-glass toilet candlesticks, with silver sconces; an elegant zebra-wood cabinet; also a beautiful davenport of zebra-wood, with a plate-glass back, containing a pen rug worked on silver ground, an ebony match box, a blue crystal, containing a sponge pen-wiper, a beautiful envelope-case, a white-cornelian seal, with ‘Hanby House’ upon it, wax of all colours, papers of all textures, envelopes without end—­every imaginable requirement of correspondence except a pen that would write.  There were pens, indeed—­there almost always are—­but they were miserable apologies of things; some were mere crow-quills—­sort of cover-hacks of