‘Couldn’t, if it was ever so,’ replied the dame, smoothing her dirty blue-checked apron with her still dirtier hand.

‘Why not?’ asked Mr. Sponge.

‘Why not?’ repeated the woman; ’why, ’cause Mr. Bottleends won’t be disturbed by no one.  He said when he went to bed that he hadn’t to be called till to-morrow.’

‘Not called till to-morrow!’ exclaimed Mr. Sponge; ’then is Sir Harry from home?’

‘From home, no; what should put that i’ your head?’ sneered the woman.

‘Why, if the butler’s in bed, one may suppose the master’s away.’

‘Hout!’ snapped the woman; ‘Sir Harry’s i’ bed—­Captin Seedeybuck’s i’ bed—­Captin Quod’s i’ bed—­Captin Spangle’s i’ bed—­Captin Bouncey’s i’ bed—­Captin Cutitfat’s i’ bed—­they’re all i’ bed ’cept me, and I’ve got the house to clean and right, and high time it was cleaned and righted, for they’ve not been i’ bed these three nights any on ’em.’  So saying, she flourished her duster as if about to set-to again.

‘Well, but tell me,’ exclaimed Mr. Sponge, ’can I see the footman, or the huntsman, or the groom, or a helper, or anybody?’

‘Deary knows,’ replied the woman thoughtfully, resting her chin on her hand.  ‘I dare say they’ll be all i’ bed too.’

‘But they are going to hunt, aren’t they?’ asked our friend.

‘Hunt!’ exclaimed the woman; ‘what should put that i’ your head.’

‘Why, they sent me word they were.’

‘It’ll be i’ bed, then,’ observed she, again giving symptoms of a desire to return to her dusting.

Mr. Sponge, who still kept his hand in his pocket, sat on his horse in a state of stupid bewilderment.  He had never seen a case of this sort before—­a house shut up, and a master of hounds in bed when the hounds were to meet before the door.  It couldn’t be the case:  the woman must be dreaming, or drunk, or both.

‘Well, but, my good woman,’ exclaimed he, as she gave a punishing cut at the chair, as if to make up for lost time; ’well, but, my good woman, I wish you would try and find somebody who can tell me something about the hounds.  I’m sure they must be going to hunt.  I’ll remember you for your trouble, if you will,’ added he, again diving his hand up to the wrist in his pocket.

‘I tell you,’ replied the woman slowly and deliberately, ’there’ll be no huntin’ to-day.  Huntin’!’ exclaimed she; ’how can they hunt when they’ve all had to be carried to bed?’

‘Carried to bed! had they?’ exclaimed Mr. Sponge; ‘what, were they drunk?’

‘Drunk! aye, to be sure.  What would you have them be?’ replied the crone, who seemed to think that drinking was a necessary concomitant of hunting.

‘Well, but I can see the footman or somebody, surely,’ observed Mr. Sponge, fearing that his chance was out for a billet, and recollecting old Jog’s ‘Bartholo-m-e-ws!’ and ‘Murry Anns!’ and intimations for him to start.