Our worthy friend sat on his horse a few seconds staring intently into the dining-room window, thinking that lapse of time might cause the fourpenny-piece to be sufficiently respected to procure him something like directions how to proceed as well to get rid of his horse, as to procure access to the house, the door of which stood frowningly shut.  In this, however, he was mistaken, for no sooner had the woman uttered the words, ‘Well, you can come in and see,’ than she flaunted into the interior of the room, and commenced a regular series of assaults upon the furniture, throwing the hearth-rug over one chair back, depositing the fire-irons in another, rearing the steel fender up against the Carrara marble chimney-piece, and knocking things about in the independent way that servants treat unoffending furniture, when master and mistress are comfortably esconced in bed.  ‘Flop’ went the duster again; ‘bang’ went the furniture; ‘knock’ this chair went against that, and she seemed bent upon putting all things into that happy state of sixes and sevens that characterizes a sale of household furniture, when chairs mount tables, and the whole system of domestic economy is revolutionized.  Seeing that he was not going to get anything more for his money, our friend at length turned his horse and found his way to the stables by the unerring drag of carriage-wheels.  All things there being as matters were in the house, he put the redoubtable nag into a stall, and helped him to a liberal measure of oats out of the well-stored unlocked corn-bin.  He then sought the back of the house by the worn flagged-way that connected it with the stables.  The back yard was in the admired confusion that might be expected from the woman’s account.  Empty casks and hampers were piled and stowed away in all directions, while regiments of champagne and other bottles stood and lay about among blacking bottles, Seltzer-water bottles, boot-trees, bath-bricks, old brushes, and stumpt-up besoms.  Several pair of dirty top-boots, most of them with the spurs on, were chucked into the shoe-house just as they had been taken off.  The kitchen, into which our friend now entered, was in the same disorderly state.  Numerous copper pans stood simmering on the charcoal stoves, and the jointless jack still revolved on the spit.  A dirty slip-shod girl sat sleeping, with her apron thrown over her head, which rested on the end of a table.  The open door of the servants’ hall hard by disclosed a pile of dress and other clothes, which, after mopping up the ale and other slops, would be carefully folded and taken back to the rooms of their respective owners.

[Illustration:  DOMESTIC ECONOMY OF NONSUCH HOUSE]

‘Halloo!’ cried Mr. Sponge, shaking the sleeping girl by the shoulder, which caused her to start up, stare, and rub her eyes in wild affright.  ‘Halloo!’ repeated he, ‘what’s happened you?’

‘Oh, beg pardon, sir!’ exclaimed she; ‘beg pardon,’ continued she, clasping her hands; ’I’ll never do so again, sir; no, sir, I’ll never do so again, indeed I won’t.’