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In course of time, Jawleyford entered the room, with:
'My dear Mr. Sponge, your groom has come up to know about your horse
to-morrow. I told him it was utterly impossible to think of hunting, but he
says he must have his orders from you. I should say,' added Jawleyford, 'it
is _quite_ out of the question--madness to think of it; much better in the
house, such weather.'
'I don't know that,' replied Sponge, 'the rain's come down, and though the
country will ride heavy, I don't see why we shouldn't have sport after it.'
'But the glass is falling, and the wind's gone round the wrong way; the
moon changed this morning--everything, in short, indicates continued wet,'
replied Jawleyford. 'The rivers are all swollen, and the low grounds under
water; besides, my dear fellow, consider the distance--consider the
distance; sixteen miles, if it's a yard.'
'What, Dundleton Tower!' exclaimed Sponge, recollecting that Jawleyford had
said it was only ten the night before.
'Sixteen miles, and bad road,' replied Jawleyford.


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