8_s_.") that had arrived
from "Wintle & Co." by rail (goods train of course) that morning.

"There!" exclaimed Jawleyford, as Spigot placed the richly cut decanter on
the horse-shoe table. "There!" repeated he, drawing the green curtain as if
to shade it from the fire, but in reality to hide the dulness the recent
shaking had given it; "that wine," said he, "is a quarter of a century in
bottle, at the very least."

'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