‘No want of money here,’ said Mr. Sponge to himself, as he eyed it, and thought what havoc Gustavus James would make among the ornaments if he had a chance.

He then looked about for pen, ink, and paper.  These were distributed so wide apart as to show the little request they were in.  Having at length succeeded in getting what he wanted gathered together, Mr. Sponge sat down on the luxurious sofa, considering how he should address his host, as he hoped.  Mr. Sponge was not a shy man, but, considering the circumstances under which he made Sir Harry Scattercash’s acquaintance, together with his design upon his hospitality—­above all, considering the crew by whom Sir Harry was surrounded—­it required some little tact to pave the way without raising the present inmates of the house against him.  There are no people so anxious to protect others from robbery as those who are robbing them themselves.  Mr. Sponge thought, and thought, and thought.  At last he resolved to write on the subject of the hounds.  After sundry attempts on pink, blue, and green-tinted paper, he at last succeeded in hitting off the following, on yellow: 

    ’NONSUCH HOUSE.

’DEAR SIR HARRY,—­I rode over this morning, hearing you were to hunt, and am sorry to find you indisposed.  I wish you would drop me a line to Mr. Crowdey’s, Puddingpote Bower, saying when next you go out, as I should much like to have another look at your splendid pack before I leave this country, which I fear will have to be soon.—­Yours in haste,

    ’H.  SPONGE.

    ’P.S.—­I hope you all got safe home the other night from Mr.
    Peastraw’s.’

Having put this into a richly gilt and embossed envelope, our friend directed it conspicuously to Sir Harry Scattercash, Bart., and stuck it in the centre of the mantelpiece.  He then retraced his steps through the back regions, informing the sleeping beauty he had before disturbed, and who was now busy scouring a pan, that he had left a letter in the drawing-room for Sir Harry, and if she would see that he got it, he (Mr. Sponge) would remember her the next time he came, which he inwardly hoped would be soon.  He then made for the stable, and got his horse, to go home, sauntering more leisurely along than one would expect of a man who had not got his breakfast, especially one riding a hack hunter.

The truth was, Mr. Sponge did not much like the aspect of affairs.  Sir Harry’s was evidently a desperately ‘fast’ house; added to which, the guests by whom he was surrounded were clearly of the wide-awake order, who could not spare any pickings for a stranger.  Indeed, Mr. Sponge felt that they rather cold-shouldered him at Farmer Peastraw’s, and were in a greater hurry to be off when the drag came, than the mere difference between inside and outside seats required.  He much questioned whether he got into Sir Harry’s at all.  If it came to a vote, he thought he should not.  Then, what was he to do?  Old Jog was clearly tired of him; and he had nowhere else to go to.  The thought made him stick spurs into the chestnut, and hurry home to Puddingpote Bower, where he endeavoured to soothe his host by more than insinuating that he was going on a visit to Nonsuch House.  Jog inwardly prayed that he might.