‘Have you?’ observed Mr. Sponge inquiringly.

‘I’ve made out that you’ve as good as twenty, one way or another,’ observed Leather; ’some ’ere, some there, all over in fact, and that you jest run about the country, and ’unt with ‘oever comes h’uppermost.’

‘Well, and what’s the upshot of it all?’ inquired Mr. Sponge, thinking his groom seemed wonderfully enthusiastic in his interest.

‘Why, the hupshot of it is,’ replied Leather, ’that the men are all mad, and the women all wild to see you.  I hear at my club, the Mutton Chop and Mealy Potato Club, which is frequented by flunkies as well as grums, that there’s nothin’ talked of at dinner or tea, but the terrible rich stranger that’s a comin’, and the gals are all pulling caps, who’s to have the first chance.’

‘Indeed,’ observed Mr. Sponge, chuckling at the sensation he was creating.

’The Miss Shapsets, there be five on ’em, have had a game at fly loo for you,’ continued Leather, ‘at least so their little maid tells me.’

‘Fly what?’ inquired Mr. Sponge.

‘Fly loo,’ repeated Leather, ‘fly loo.’

Mr. Sponge shook his head.  For once he was not ‘fly.’

‘You see,’ continued Leather, in explanation, ’their father is one of them tight-laced candlestick priests wot abhors all sorts of wice and himmorality, and won’t stand card playin’, or gamblin’, or nothin’ o’ that sort, so the young ladies when they want to settle a point, who’s to be married first, or who’s to have the richest ’usband, play fly loo.  ’Sposing it’s at breakfast time, they all sit quiet and sober like round the table, lookin’ as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths, and each has a lump o’ sugar on her plate, or by her cup, or somewhere, and whoever can ’tice a fly to come to her sugar first, wins the wager, or whatever it is they play for.’

’Five on ’em,’ as Leather said, being a hopeless number to extract any good from, Mr. Sponge changed the subject by giving orders for the morrow.

Mr. Sponge’s appearance being decidedly of the sporting order, and his horses maintaining the character, did not alleviate the agitated minds of the sporting beholders, ruffled as they were with the threatening, vapouring insinuations of the coachman-groom, Peter Leather.  There is nothing sets men’s backs up so readily, as a hint that any one is coming to take the ‘shine’ out of them across country.  We have known the most deadly feuds engendered between parties who never spoke to each other by adroit go-betweens reporting to each what the other said, or, perhaps, did not say, but what the ‘go-betweens’ knew would so rouse the British lion as to make each ride to destruction if necessary.

‘He’s a varmint-looking chap,’ observed Mr. Waffles, as the party returned from the railway station; ’shouldn’t wonder if he can go—­dare say he’ll try—­shouldn’t wonder if he’s floored—­awfully stiff country this for horses that are not used to it—­most likely his are Leicestershire nags, used to fly—­won’t do here.  If he attempts to take some of our big banked bullfinches in his stride, with a yawner on each side, will get into grief.’