‘I think so,’ said Sir Harry.  ‘What do you think, Mr. Sponge?’ added he, appealing to our hero.

‘Half an hour may make a great difference,’ observed Mr. Sponge.  ’The sun will then be at its best.’

‘We’ll try, at all events,’ observed Sir Harry.

‘That’s right,’ exclaimed George Cheek, waving a scarlet bandana over his head.

’I shall expect you to ride up to the ‘ounds, young gent,’ observed Watchorn, darting an angry look at the speaker.

‘Won’t I, old boy!’ exclaimed George; ’ride over you, if you don’t get out of the way.’

‘’Deed,’ sneered the huntsman, whisking about to leave the room; muttering, as he passed behind the large Indian screen at the door, something about ‘jawing jackanapes, well called Cheek.’

’’Unt in ‘alf an hour!’ exclaimed Watchorn, from the steps of the front door; an announcement that was received by the little Raws, and little Spooneys, and little Baskets, and little Bulgeys, and little Bricks, and little others, with rapturous applause.

All was now commotion and hurry-scurry inside and out; glasses were drained, lips wiped, and napkins thrown hastily away, while ladies and gentlemen began grouping and talking about hats and habits, and what they should ride.

‘You go with me, Orlando,’ said Lady Scattercash to our friend Bugles, recollecting the quantity of diachylon plaster it had taken to repair the damage of his former equestrian performance.  ‘You go with me, Orlando,’ said she, ‘in the phaeton; and I’ll lend Lucy,’ nodding towards Miss Glitters, ‘my habit and horse.’

‘Who can lend me a coat?’ asked Captain Seedeybuck, examining the skirts of a much frayed invisible-green surtout.

‘A coat!’ replied Captain Quod; ’I can lend you a Joinville, if that will do as well,’ the captain feeling his own extensive one as he spoke.

‘Hardly,’ said Seedeybuck, turning about to ask Sir Harry.

‘What!—­you are going to give Watchorn a tussle, are you?’ asked Captain Cutitfat of George Cheek, as the latter began adjusting the fox-toothed riband about his hat.

‘I believe you,’ replied George, with a knowing jerk of his head; adding, ‘it won’t take much to beat him.’

’What! he’s a slow ‘un, is he?’ asked Cutitfat, in an undertone.

‘Slowest coach I ever saw,’ growled George.

‘Won’t ride, won’t he?’ asked the Captain.

‘Not if he can help it,’ replied George, adding, ’but he’s such a shocking huntsman—­never saw such a huntsman in all my life.’

George’s experience lay between his Uncle Jellyboy, who rode eighteen stone and a half, Tom Scramble, the pedestrian huntsman of the Slowfoot hounds, near Mr. Latherington’s, and Mr. Watchorn.  But critics, especially hunting ones, are all ready made, as Lord Byron said.

‘Well, we’d better disperse and get ready,’ observed Bob Spangles, making for the door; whereupon the tide of population flowed that way, and the room was presently cleared.