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Sponge looked down upon it, he thought far more of Jawleyford and Co.
than he did as the mere occupants of a modest, white-stuccoed,
green-verandahed house, at Laverick Wells. Nor did his admiration diminish
as he advanced, and, crossing by a battlemented bridge over the moat, he
viewed the massive character of the buildings rising grandly from their
rocky foundation. An imposing, solemn-toned old clock began striking four,
as the horsemen rode under the Gothic portico, whose notes re-echoed and
reverberated, and at last lost themselves among the towers and pinnacles of
the building. Sponge, for a moment, was awe-stricken at the magnificence of
the scene, feeling that it was what he would call 'a good many cuts above
him'; but he soon recovered his wonted impudence.
'He _would_ have me,' thought he, recalling the pressing nature of the
Jawleyford invitation.
'If you'll hold my nag,' said Watson, throwing himself off the shaggy
white, 'I'll ring the bell,' added he, running up a wide flight of steps to
the hall-door.


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