‘Better valk the chestnut,’ replied Mr. Leather; ’Multum-in-Parvo hasn’t ’ad a good day this I don’t know wen, and will be all the better of a bucketin’.’

‘But I hate crawling to cover on my horse,’ replied Mr. Sponge, who liked cantering along with a flourish.

’You’ll have to crawl if you ride ‘Ercles,’ observed Leather, ’if not walk.  Bless you!  I’ve been a-nussin’ of him and the ’ack most the ‘ole night.’

‘Indeed!’ replied Mr. Sponge, who began to be alarmed lest his hunting might be brought to an abrupt termination.

’True as I’m ‘ere,’ rejoined Leather.  ’He’s just as much off his grub as he vos when he com’d in; never see’d an ‘oss more reg’larly dished—­more—­’

‘Well, well,’ said Mr. Sponge, interrupting the catalogue of grievances; ’I s’pose I must do as you say—­I s’pose I must do as you say:  what sort of a day is it?’

’Vy, the day’s not a bad day; at least that’s to say, it’s not a wery haggrivatin’ day.  I’ve seen a betterer day, in course; but I’ve also seen many a much worser day, and days at this time of year, you know, are apt to change—­sometimes, in course, for the betterer—­sometimes, in course, for the worser.’

‘Is it a frost?’ snapped Mr. Sponge, tired of his loquacity.

‘Is it a frost?’ repeated Mr. Leather thoughtfully; ’is it a frost?  Vy, no; I should say it isn’t a frost—­at least, not a frost to ’urt; there may be a little rind on the ground and a little rawness in the hair, but the general concatenation—­’

‘Hout, tout!’ exclaimed Mr. Sponge, ’let’s have none of your dictionary words.’

Mr. Leather stood silent, twisting his hat about.

The consequence of all this was, that Mr. Sponge determined to ride over to Nonsuch House to breakfast, which would give his horse half an hour in the stable to eat a feed of corn.  Accordingly, he desired Leather to bring him his shaving-water, and have the horse ready in the stable in half an hour, whither, in due time, Mr. Sponge emerged by the back door, without encountering any of the family.  The ambling piebald looked so crestfallen and woebegone in all the swaddling-clothes in which Leather had got him enveloped, that Mr. Sponge did not care to look at the gallant Hercules, who occupied a temporary loose-box at the far end of the dark stable, lest he might look worse.  He, therefore, just mounted Multum-in-Parvo as Leather led him out at the door, and set off without a word.

‘Well, hang me, but you are a good judge of weather,’ exclaimed Sponge to himself, as he got into the field at the back of the house, and found the horse made little impression on the grass. ‘No frost!’ repeated he, breathing into the air; ‘why it’s freezing now, out of the sun.’

On getting into Marygold Lane, our friend drew rein, and was for turning back, but the resolute chestnut took the bit between his teeth and shook his head, as if determined to go on.