'I'll play him for what he likes!' exclaimed the cool, coatless Captain Macer, striking his ball away for a cannon. 'Hang your play!' replied Spareneck; 'you're always thinking of play--it's hunting I'm talking of.' bringing his heavy, silver-mounted jockey-whip a crack down his leg. 'You don't say so!' exclaimed Sam Shortcut, who had been flattered into riding rather harder than he liked, and feared his pluck might be put to the test. 'What a ruffian!'--(puff)--observed Mr. Waffles, taking his cigar from his mouth as he sat on the bench, dressed as a racket-player, looking on at the game, 'he shalln't ride roughshod over us.' 'That he shalln't!' exclaimed Caingey Thornton, Mr. Waffles's premier toady, and constant trencherman. 'I'll ride him!' rejoined Mr. Spareneck, jockeying his arms, and flourishing his whip as if he was at work, adding: 'his old brandy-nosed, frosty-whiskered trumpeter of a groom says he's coming down by the five o'clock train. I vote we go and meet him--invite him to a steeple-chase by moonlight.' 'I vote we go and see him, at all events,' observed Frank Hoppey, laying down his cue and putting on his coat, adding, 'I should like to see a man bold enough to beard a whole hunt--especially such a hunt as _ours_.' 'Finish the game first,' observed Captain Macer, who had rather the best of it. 'No, leave the balls as they are till we come back,' rejoined Ned Stringer; 'we shall be late. See, it's only ten _to_, now,' continued he, pointing to the timepiece above the fire; whereupon there was a putting away of cues, hurrying on of coats, seeking of hats, sorting of sticks, and a general desertion of the room for the railway station. [Illustration: MR. SPONGE ARRIVES AT LAVERICK WELLS] CHAPTER VII OUR HERO ARRIVES AT LAVERICK WELLS Punctual to the moment, the railway train, conveying the redoubtable genius, glid into the well-lighted, elegant little station of Laverick Wells, and out of a first-class carriage emerged Mr. Sponge, in a 'down the road' coat, carrying a horse-sheet wrapper in his hand. So small and insignificant did the station seem after the gigantic ones of London, that Mr. Sponge thought he had wasted his money in taking a first-class ticket, seeing there was no one to know. Mr. Leather, who was in attendance, having received him hat in hand, with all the deference due to the master of twenty hunters, soon undeceived him on that point. Having eased him of his wrapper, and inquired about his luggage, and despatched a porter for a fly, they stood together over the portmanteau and hat-box till it arrived. 'How are the horses?' asked Sponge. 'Oh, the osses be nicely, sir,' replied Leather; 'they travelled down uncommon well, and I've had 'em both removed sin they com'd, so either on 'em is fit to go i' the mornin' that you think proper.' 'Where are the hounds?' asked our hero. ''Ounds be at Whirleypool Windmill,' replied Leather, 'that's about five miles off.'