Just as they were all about brought to a standstill, the trampling of horses, the rumbling of wheels, and the shrill twang, twang, twang of the now almost forgotten mail horn, roused them from their reveries.  It was Sir Harry’s drag scouring the country in search of our party.  It had been to all the public-houses and beer-shops within a radius of some miles of Nonsuch House, and was now taking a speculative blow through the centre of the circle.

It was a clear frosty night, and the horses’ hoofs rang, and the wheels rolled soundly over the hard road, cracking the thin ice, yet hardly sufficiently frozen to prevent a slight upshot from the wheels.

[Illustration:  MR. BUGLES PREFERS DANCING TO HUNTING]

Twang, twang, twang, went the horn full upon Farmer Peastraw’s house, causing the sleepers to start, and the waking ones to make for the window.

‘COACH-A-HOY!’ cried Bob Spangles, smashing a pane in a vain attempt to get the window up.  The coachman pulled up at the sound.

‘Here we are.  Sir Harry!’ cried Bob Spangles, into his brother-in-law’s ear, but Sir Harry was too far gone; he could not ‘come to time.’  Presently a footman entered with furred coats, and shawls, and checkered rugs, in which those who were sufficiently sober enveloped themselves, and those who were too far gone were huddled by Peastraw and the man; and amid much hurry and confusion, and jostling for inside seats, the party freighted the coach, and whisked away before Mr. Sponge knew where he was.

When they arrived at Nonsuch House, they found Mr. Bugles exercising the fiddlers by dancing the ladies in turns.

CHAPTER LII

A MOONLIGHT RIDE

The position, then, of Mr. Sponge was this.  He was left on a frosty, moonlight night at the door of a strange farmhouse, staring after a receding coach, containing all his recent companions.

‘You’ll not be goin’ wi’ ’em, then?’ observed Mr. Peastraw, who stood beside him, listening to the shrill notes of the horn dying out in the distance.

‘No,’ replied Mr. Sponge.

‘Rummy lot,’ observed Mr. Peastraw, with a shake of the head.

‘Are they?’ asked Mr. Sponge.

‘Very!’ replied Mr. Peastraw.  ’Be the death of Sir Harry among ’em.’

‘Who are they all?’ asked Mr. Sponge.

‘Rubbish!’ replied Peastraw with a sneer, diving his hands into the depths of his pockets.  ‘Well, we’d better go in,’ added he, pulling his hands out and rubbing them, to betoken that he felt cold.

Mr. Sponge, not being much of a drinker, was more overcome with what he had taken than a seasoned cask would have been; added to which the keen night air striking upon his heated frame soon sent the liquor into his head.  He began to feel queer.

‘Well,’ said he to his host, ‘I think I’d better be going.’

‘Where are you bound for?’ asked Mr. Peastraw.