Sponge was silent, and took a great gulp of the dull 'Wintle,' to save himself from answering.
'Was my Lord Scamperdale out?' asked Jawleyford, seeing he was not going to get a reply.
'Why, I can really hardly tell you that,' replied Sponge. 'There were two men out, either of whom might be him; at least, they both seemed to take the lead, and—and—' he was going to say 'blow up the people,' but he thought he might as well keep that to himself.
'Stout, hale-looking men, dressed much alike, with great broad tortoise-shell-rimmed spectacles on?' asked Jawleyford.
'Just so,' replied Sponge.
'Ah, you are right, then,' rejoined Jawleyford; 'it would be my lord.'
'And who was the other?' inquired our friend.
'Oh, that Jack Spraggon,' replied Jawleyford, curling up his nose, as if he was going to be sick; 'one of the most odious wretches under the sun. I really don't know any man that I have so great a dislike to, so utter a contempt for, as that Jack, as they call him.'
'What is he?' asked Sponge.
'Oh, just a hanger-on of his lordship's; the creature has nothing—nothing whatever; he lives on my lord—eats his venison, drinks his claret, rides his horses, bullies those his lordship doesn't like to tackle with, and makes himself generally useful.'