It was
only half-past nine, and already in the far distance he saw the encircling
woods of Nonsuch House.
'Shall be early,' said Mr. Sponge, returning his watch to his
waistcoat-pocket, and diving into his cutty coat-pocket for the cigar-case.
Having struck a light, he now laid the rein on the horse's neck and
proceeded leisurely along, the animal stepping gaily and throwing its head
about as if he was the quietest, most trustworthy nag in the world. If he
got there at half-past ten, Mr. Sponge calculated he would have plenty of
time to see after his horse, get his own breakfast, and see how the land
lay for a billet.
It would be impossible to hunt before twelve; so he went smoking and
sauntering along, now wondering whether he would be able to establish a
billet, now thinking how he would like to sell Sir Harry a horse, then
considering whether he would be likely to pay for him, and enlivening the
general reflections by ringing his spurs against his stirrup-irons.
Having passed the lodges at the end of the avenue, he cocked his hat,
twiddled his hair, felt his tie, and arranged for a becoming appearance.
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