Huntin'!' exclaimed she; 'how can they hunt when they've
all had to be carried to bed?'
'Carried to bed! had they?' exclaimed Mr. Sponge; 'what, were they drunk?'
'Drunk! aye, to be sure. What would you have them be?' replied the crone,
who seemed to think that drinking was a necessary concomitant of hunting.
'Well, but I can see the footman or somebody, surely,' observed Mr. Sponge,
fearing that his chance was out for a billet, and recollecting old Jog's
'Bartholo-_m-e-ws_!' and 'Murry Anns!' and intimations for him to start.
''Deed you can't,' replied the dame--'ye can see nebody but me,' added she,
fixing her twinkling eyes intently upon him as she spoke.
'Well, that's a pretty go,' observed Mr. Sponge aloud to himself, ringing
his spurs against his stirrup-irons.
'Pretty go or ugly go,' snapped the woman, thinking it was a reflection on
herself, 'it's all you'll get'; and thereupon she gave the back of the
chair a hearty bastinadoing as if in exemplification of the way she would
like to serve Mr. Sponge out for the observation.
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