Jawleyford then moved an adjournment to the fire; which Sponge gladly seconded, for he had never been warm since he came into the house, the heat from the fires seeming to go up the chimneys.  Spigot set them a little round table, placing the port and claret upon it, and bringing them a plate of biscuits in lieu of the dessert.  He then reduced the illumination on the table, and extinguished such of the lamps as had not gone out of themselves.  Having cast an approving glance around, and seen that they had what he considered right, he left them to their own devices.

‘Do you drink port or claret, Mr. Sponge?’ asked Jawleyford, preparing to push whichever he preferred over to him.

‘I’ll take a little port, first, if you please,’ replied our friend—­as much as to say, ‘I’ll finish off with claret.’

‘You’ll find that very good, I expect,’ said Mr. Jawleyford, passing the bottle to him; ’it’s ’20 wine—­very rare wine to get now—­was a very rich fruity wine, and was a long time before it came into drinking.  Connoisseurs would give any money for it.’

‘It has still a good deal of body,’ observed Sponge, turning off a glass and smacking his lips, at the same time holding the glass up to the candle to see the oily mark it made on the side.

‘Good sound wine—­good sound wine,’ said Mr. Jawleyford.  ’Have plenty lighter, if you like.’  The light wine was made by watering the strong.

‘Oh no, thank you,’ replied Mr. Sponge, ’oh no, thank you.  I like good strong military port.’

‘So do I,’ said Mr. Jawleyford, ’so do I; only unfortunately it doesn’t like me—­am obliged to drink claret.  When I was in the Bumperkin yeomanry we drank nothing but port.’  And then Jawleyford diverged into a long rambling dissertation on messes and cavalry tactics, which nearly sent Mr. Sponge asleep.

‘Where did you say the hounds are to-morrow?’ at length asked he, after Mr. Jawleyford had talked himself out.

‘To-morrow,’ repeated Mr. Jawleyford, thoughtfully, ’to-morrow—­they don’t hunt to-morrow—­not one of their days—­next day.  Scrambleford Green—­Scrambleford Green—­no, no, I’m wrong—­Dundleton Tower—­Dundleton Tower.’

‘How far is that from here?’ asked Mr. Sponge.

‘Oh, ten miles—­say ten miles,’ replied Mr. Jawleyford.  It was sometimes ten, and sometimes fifteen, depending upon whether Mr. Jawleyford wanted the party to go or not.  These elastic places, however, are common in all countries—­to sight-seers as well as to hunters.  ‘Close by—­close by,’ one day.  ‘Oh! a lo-o-ng way from here,’ another.