‘How shall I begin?’ asked Sponge, twirling the pen between his fingers, and spluttering the ink over the paper.

‘Begin!’ replied Jack, ‘begin, oh, begin, just as you usually begin.’

‘As a letter?’ asked Sponge.

’I ‘spose so,’ replied Jack; ‘how would you think?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ replied Sponge.  ‘Will you try your hand?’ added he, holding out the pen.

‘Why, I’m busy just now, you see,’ said he, pointing to his cigar, ’and that horse of yours’ (Jack had ridden the redoubtable chestnut, Multum-in-Parvo, who had gone very well in the company of Hercules) pulled so confoundedly that I’ve almost lost the use of my fingers,’ continued he, working away as if he had got the cramp in both hands; ’but I’ll prompt you,’ added he, ‘I’ll prompt you.’

‘Why don’t you begin then?’ asked Sponge.

‘Begin!’ exclaimed Jack, taking the cigar from his lips; ‘begin!’ repeated he, ‘oh, I’ll begin directly—­didn’t know you were ready.’

Jack then threw himself back in his chair, and sticking out his little bandy legs, turned the whites of his eyes up to the ceiling, as if lost in meditation.

‘Begin,’ said he, after a pause, ’begin, “This splendid pack had a stunning run."’

‘But we must put what pack first,’ observed Sponge, writing the words ‘Mr. Puffington’s hounds’ at the top of the paper.  ‘Well,’ said he, writing on, ‘this stunning pack had a splendid run.’

‘No, not stunning pack,’ growled Jack, ’splendid pack—­“this splendid pack had a stunning run."’

‘Stop!’ exclaimed Sponge, writing it down; ‘well,’ said he looking up, ‘I’ve got it.’

‘This stunning pack had a splendid run,’ repeated Jack, squinting away at the ceiling.

‘I thought you said splendid pack,’ observed Sponge.

‘So I did,’ replied Jack.

‘You said stunning just now,’ rejoined he.

‘Ah, that was a slip of the tongue,’ said Jack.  ’This splendid pack had a stunning run,’ repeated Jack, appealing again to his cigar for inspiration; ‘well, then,’ said he, after a pause, ‘you just go on as usual, you know,’ continued he, with a flourish of his great red hand.

‘As usual!’ exclaimed Sponge, ‘you don’t s’pose one’s pen goes of itself.’

‘Why, no,’ replied Jack, knocking the ashes off his cigar on to the arabesque-patterned tapestry carpet—­’why, no, not exactly; but these things, you know, are a good deal matter of course; just describe what you saw, you know, and butter Puff well, that’s the main point.’

‘But you forget,’ replied Sponge, ’I don’t know the country, I don’t know the people, I don’t know anything at all about the run—­I never once looked at the hounds.’