‘Well, but, confound him, I didn’t ask his horses,’ exclaimed Jawleyford; ‘nor will I have them either,’ continued he, with a jerk of the head, as he got up and rang the bell, as though determined to put a stop to that at all events.

‘Samuel,’ said he, to the dirty page of a boy who answered the summons, ’tell John Watson to go down to the Railway Tavern directly, and desire them to get a three-stalled stable ready for a gentleman’s horses that are coming to-day—­a gentleman of the name of Sponge,’ added he, lest any one else should chance to come and usurp them—­’and tell John to meet the express train, and tell the gentleman’s groom where it is.’

CHAPTER XIV

JAWLEYFORD COURT

True to a minute, the hissing engine drew the swiftly gliding train beneath the elegant and costly station at Lucksford—­an edifice presenting a rare contrast to the wretched old red-tiled, five-windowed house, called the Red Lion, where a brandy-faced blacksmith of a landlord used to emerge from the adjoining smithy, to take charge of any one who might arrive per coach for that part of the country.  Mr. Sponge was quickly on the platform, seeing to the detachment of his horse-box.

Just as the cavalry was about got into marching order, up rode John Watson, a ragamuffin-looking gamekeeper, in a green plush coat, with a very tarnished laced hat, mounted on a very shaggy white pony, whose hide seemed quite impervious to the visitations of a heavily-knotted dogwhip, with which he kept saluting his shoulders and sides.

‘Please, sir,’ said he, riding up to Mr. Sponge, with a touch of the old hat, ’I’ve got you a capital three-stall stable at the Railway Tavern, here,’ pointing to a newly built brick house standing on the rising ground.

‘Oh! but I’m going to Jawleyford Court,’ responded our friend, thinking the man was the ‘tout’ of the tavern.

‘Mr. Jawleyford don’t take in horses, sir,’ rejoined the man, with another touch of the hat.

‘He’ll take in mine,’ observed Mr. Sponge, with an air of authority.

‘Oh, I beg pardon, sir,’ replied the keeper, thinking he had made a mistake; ‘it was Mr. Sponge whose horses I had to bespeak stalls for,’ touching his hat profusely as he spoke.

‘Well, this be Mister Sponge,’ observed Leather, who had been listening attentively to what passed.

‘’Deed!’ said the keeper, again turning to our hero with an ’I beg pardon, sir, but the stable is for you then, sir—­for Mr. Sponge, sir.’

‘How do you know that?’ demanded our friend.

’’Cause Mr. Spigot, the butler, says to me, says he, “Mr. Watson,” says he—­my name’s Watson, you see,’ continued the speaker, sawing away at his hat, ’my name’s Watson, you see, and I’m the head gamekeeper.  “Mr. Watson,” says he, “you must go down to the tavern and order a three-stall stable for a gentleman of the name of Sponge, whose horses are a comin’ to-day”; and in course I’ve come ‘cordingly,’ added Watson.  ‘A three-stall’d stable!’ observed Mr. Sponge, with an emphasis.