‘Indeed,’ observed Sponge:  ‘time it was drunk.’

‘A quarter of a century?’ gaped Robert Foozle.

‘Quarter of a century if it’s a day,’ replied Jawleyford, smacking his lips as he set down his glass after imbibing the precious beverage.

‘Very fine,’ observed Sponge; adding, as he sipped off his glass, ’it’s odd to find such old wine so full-bodied.’

‘Well, now tell us all about your day’s proceedings,’ said Jawleyford, thinking it advisable to change the conversation at once.  ’What sport had you with my lord?’

‘Oh, why, I really can’t tell you much,’ drawled Sponge, with an air of bewilderment.  ‘Strange country—­strange faces—­nobody I knew, and—­’

‘Ah, true,’ replied Jawleyford, ’true.  It occurred to me after you were gone, that perhaps you might not know any one.  Ours, you see, is rather an out-of-the-way country; few of our people go to town, or indeed anywhere else; they are all tarry-at-home birds.  But they’d receive you with great politeness, I’m sure—­if they knew you came from here, at least,’ added he.

Sponge was silent, and took a great gulp of the dull ‘Wintle,’ to save himself from answering.

‘Was my Lord Scamperdale out?’ asked Jawleyford, seeing he was not going to get a reply.

‘Why, I can really hardly tell you that,’ replied Sponge.  ’There were two men out, either of whom might be him; at least, they both seemed to take the lead, and—­and—­’ he was going to say ‘blow up the people,’ but he thought he might as well keep that to himself.

’Stout, hale-looking men, dressed much alike, with great broad tortoise-shell-rimmed spectacles on?’ asked Jawleyford.

‘Just so,’ replied Sponge.

‘Ah, you are right, then,’ rejoined Jawleyford; ‘it would be my lord.’

‘And who was the other?’ inquired our friend.

‘Oh, that Jack Spraggon,’ replied Jawleyford, curling up his nose, as if he was going to be sick; ’one of the most odious wretches under the sun.  I really don’t know any man that I have so great a dislike to, so utter a contempt for, as that Jack, as they call him.’

‘What is he?’ asked Sponge.

’Oh, just a hanger-on of his lordship’s; the creature has nothing—­nothing whatever; he lives on my lord—­eats his venison, drinks his claret, rides his horses, bullies those his lordship doesn’t like to tackle with, and makes himself generally useful.’

‘He seems a man of that sort,’ observed Sponge, as he thought over the compliment he had received.

‘Well, who else had you out, then?’ asked Jawleyford.  ’Was Tom Washball there?’

‘No,’ replied Sponge:  ‘he wasn’t out, I know.’

‘Ah, that’s unfortunate,’ observed Jawleyford, helping himself and passing the bottle.  ’Tom’s a capital fellow—­a perfect gentleman—­great friend of mine.  If he’d been out you’d have had nothing to do but mention my name, and he’d have put you all right in a minute.  Who else was there, then?’ continued he.