tier hand.

'Why not?' asked Mr. Sponge.

'Why not?' repeated the woman; 'why, 'cause Mr. Bottleends won't be
disturbed by no one. He said when he went to bed that he hadn't to be
called till to-morrow.'

'Not called till to-morrow!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge; 'then is Sir Harry from
home?'

'From home, no; what should put that i' your head?' sneered the woman.

'Why, if the butler's in bed, one may suppose the master's away.'

'Hout!' snapped the woman; 'Sir Harry's i' bed--Captin Seedeybuck's i'
bed--Captin Quod's i' bed--Captin Spangle's i' bed--Captin Bouncey's i'
bed--Captin Cutitfat's i' bed--they're all i' bed 'cept me, and I've got
the house to clean and right, and high time it was cleaned and righted, for
they've not been i' bed these three nights any on 'em.' So saying, she
flourished her duster as if about to set-to again.

'Well, but tell me,' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, 'can I see the footman, or the
huntsman, or the groom, or a helper, or anybody?'

'Deary knows,' replied the woman thoughtfully, resting her chin on her
hand. 'I dare say they'll be all i' bed too.'

'But they are going to hunt, aren't they?' asked our friend.

'_Hunt!_' exclaimed the woman; 'what should put that i' your head.'

'Why, they sent me word they were.'

'It'll be i' bed, then,' observed she, again giving symptoms of a desire to
return to her dusting.

Mr. Sponge, who still kept his hand in his pocket, sat on his horse in a
state of stupid bewilderment. He had never seen a case of this sort
before--a house shut up, and a master of hounds in bed when the hounds were
to meet before the door. It couldn't be the case: the woman must be
dreaming, or drunk, or both.

'Well, but, my good woman,' exclaimed he, as she gave a punishing cut at
the chair, as if to make up for lost time; 'well, but, my good woman, I
wish you would try and find somebody who can tell me something about the
hounds. I'm sure they must be going to hunt. I'll remember you for your
trouble, if you will,' added he, again diving his hand up to the wrist in
his pocket.

'I tell you,' replied the woman slowly and deliberately, 'there'll be no
huntin' to-day. Huntin'!' exclaimed she; 'how can they hunt when they've
all had to be carried to bed?'

'Carried to bed! had they?' exclaimed Mr. Sponge; 'what, were they drunk?'

'Drunk! aye, to be sure. What would you have them be?' replied the crone,
who seemed to think that drinking was a necessary concomitant of hunti