'
'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.
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