He was left on a frosty,
moonlight night at the door of a strange farmhouse, staring after a
receding coach, containing all his recent companions.
'You'll not be goin' wi' 'em, then?' observed Mr. Peastraw, who stood
beside him, listening to the shrill notes of the horn dying out in the
distance.
'No,' replied Mr. Sponge.
'Rummy lot,' observed Mr. Peastraw, with a shake of the head.
'Are they?' asked Mr. Sponge.
'Very!' replied Mr. Peastraw. 'Be the death of Sir Harry among 'em.'
'Who are they all?' asked Mr. Sponge.
'Rubbish!' replied Peastraw with a sneer, diving his hands into the depths
of his pockets. 'Well, we'd better go in,' added he, pulling his hands out
and rubbing them, to betoken that he felt cold.
Mr. Sponge, not being much of a drinker, was more overcome with what he had
taken than a seasoned cask would have been; added to which the keen night
air striking upon his heated frame soon sent the liquor into his head. He
began to feel queer.
'Well,' said he to his host, 'I think I'd better be going.
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