It was Sir Harry and friends recruiting at Fanner Peastraw’s after their exertions; for, though they could not make much of hunting, they were always ready to drink.  They were having a rare set-to—­rashers of bacon, wedges of cheese, with oceans of malt-liquor.  It was the appearance of a magnificent cold round of home-fed beef, red with saltpetre and flaky with white fat, borne on high by their host, that elicited the applause and the one cheer more that broke on Mr. Sponge’s ear as he was passing—­applause that was renewed as they caught a glimpse of his red coat, not on account of his safety or that of the hounds, but simply because being in the cheering mood, they were ready to cheer anything.

‘Hil-loo! there’s Mr. What’s-his-name!’ exclaimed brother Bob Spangles, as he caught view of Sponge and the hounds passing the window.

‘So there is!’ roared another; ‘Hoo-ray!’

‘Hoo-ray!’ yelled two or three more.

‘Stop him!’ cried another.

‘Call him in,’ roared Sir Harry, ‘and let’s liquor him.’

‘Hilloo!  Mister What’s-your-name!’ exclaimed the other Spangles, throwing up the window.  ‘Hilloo, won’t you come in and have some refreshment?’

‘Who’s there?’ asked Mr. Sponge, reining in the brown.

‘Oh, we’re all here,’ shouted brother Bob Spangles, holding up a tumbler of hot brandy-and-water; ‘we’re all here—­Sir Harry and all,’ added he.

‘But what shall I do with the hounds?’ asked Mr. Sponge, looking down upon the confused pack, now crowding about his horse’s head.

’Oh, let the beef-eaters—­the scene-shifters—­I meant to say the servants—­those fellows, you know, in scarlet and black caps, look after them,’ replied brother Bob Spangles.

‘But there are none of them here,’ exclaimed Mr. Sponge, looking back on the deserted road.

‘None of them here!’ hiccuped Sir Harry, who had now got reeled to the window.  ‘None of them here,’ repeated he, staring vacantly at the uneven pack.  ’Oh (hiccup) I’ll tell you what do—­(hiccup) them into a barn or a stable, or a (hiccup) of any sort, and we’ll send for them when we want to (hiccup) again.’  ‘Then just you call them to you,’ replied Sponge, thinking they would go to their master.  ‘Just you call them,’ repeated he, ‘and I’ll put them to you.’

‘(Hiccup) call to them?’ replied Harry.  ‘I can’t (hiccup).’

‘Oh yes!’ rejoined Mr. Sponge; ’call one or two by their names, and the rest will follow.’

‘Names! (hiccup) I don’t know any of their nasty names,’ replied Sir Harry, staring wildly.

‘Towler!  Towler!  Towler! here, good dog—­hoop!—­here’s your liquor!’ cried brother Bob Spangles, holding the smoking tumbler of brandy-and-water out of the window, as if to tempt any hound that chose to answer to the name of Towler.

There didn’t seem to be a Towler in the pack; at least, none of them qualified for the brandy-and-water.