‘I think I do,’ replied Sponge who had been at the game pretty often.

‘Well, then,’ continued Jack, reverting to his original position, ’my friend, Mr. Pacey here, challenges your chestnut.’

‘No, never mind,’ muttered Pacey peevishly, in an undertone, with a frown on his face, giving Jack a dig in the ribs with his elbow.  ‘Never mind,’ repeated he; ‘I don’t care about it—­I don’t want the horse.’

‘But I do,’ growled Jack, adding, in an undertone also, as he stooped for his napkin, ’don’t spoil sport, man; he’s as good a horse as ever stepped; and if you’ll challenge him, I’ll stand between you and danger.’

‘But he may challenge something I don’t want to part with,’ observed Pacey.

‘Then you’ve nothin’ to do,’ replied Jack, ’but bring up your hand without any money in it.’

‘Ah!  I forgot,’ replied Pacey, who did not like not to appear what he called ‘fly.’  ‘Well, then, I challenge your chestnut!’ exclaimed he, perking up, and shouting up the table to Sponge.

‘Good!’ replied our friend.  ‘I challenge your watch and chain, then,’ looking at Pacey’s chain-daubed vest.

‘Name me arbitrator,’ muttered Jack, as he again stooped for his napkin.

‘Who shall handicap us?  Captain Guano, Mr. Lumpleg, or who?’ asked Sponge.

‘Suppose we say Spraggon?—­he says he rode the horse to-day,’ replied Pacey.

‘Quite agreeable,’ said Sponge.

‘Now, Jack!’ ‘Now, Spraggon!’ ‘Now, old Solomon!’ ‘Now, Doctor Wiseman,’ resounded from different parts of the table.

Jack looked solemn; and diving both hands into his breeches’ pockets, stuck out his legs extensively before him.

‘Give me money,’ said he pompously.  They each handed him half a crown; and Jack added a third for himself.  ’Mr. Pacey challenges Mr. Sponge’s chestnut horse, and Mr. Sponge challenges Mr. Pacey’s gold watch,’ observed Jack sententiously.

‘Come, old Slowman, go on!’ exclaimed Guano, adding, ’have you got no further than that?’

‘Hurry no man’s cattle,’ replied Jack tartly, adding, ’you may keep a donkey yourself some day.’

‘Mr. Pacey challenges Mr. Sponge’s chestnut horse,’ repeated Jack.  ’How old is the chestnut, Mr. Sponge?’ added he, addressing himself to our friend.

‘Upon my word I hardly know,’ replied Sponge, ’he’s past mark of mouth; but I think a hunter’s age has very little to do with his worth.’

‘Who-y, that depends,’ rejoined Jack, blowing out his cheeks, and looking as pompous as possible—­’that depends a good deal upon how he’s been used in his youth.’

‘He’s about nine, I should say,’ observed Sponge, pretending to have been calculating, though, in reality, he knew nothing whatever about the horse’s age.  ‘Say nine, or rising ten, and never did a day’s work till he was six.’

‘Indeed!’ said Jack, with an important bow, adding, ’being easy with them at the beginnin’ puts on a deal to the end.  Perfect hunter, I s’pose?’