'S-o-o,' observed Mr. Peastraw thoughtfully; 'Mr. Crowdey's—Mr. Jogglebury that was?'
'Yes,' replied Mr. Sponge.
'He is a deuce of a man, that, for breaking people's hedges,' observed Mr. Peastraw; after a pause, 'he can't see a straight stick of no sort, but he's sure to be at it.'
'He's a great man for walking-sticks,' replied Mr. Sponge, staggering in the direction of the stable in which he put his horse.
The house clock then struck ten.
'She's fast,' observed Mr. Peastraw, fearing his guest might be wanting to stay all night.
'How far will Puddingpote Bower be from here?' asked Mr. Sponge.
'Oh, no distance, sir, no distance,' replied Mr. Peastraw, now leading out the horse. 'Can't miss your way, sir—can't miss your way. First turn on the right takes you to Collins' Green; then keep by the side of the church, next the pond; then go straight forward for about a mile and a half, or two miles, till you come to a small village called Lea Green; turn short at the finger-post as you enter, and keep right along by the side of the hills till you come to the Winslow Woods; leave them to the left, and pass by Mr. Roby's farm, at Runton—you'll know Mr. Roby?'
'Not I,' replied Mr. Sponge, hoisting himself into the saddle, and holding out a hand to take leave of his host.
'Good night, sir; good night!' exclaimed Mr. Peastraw, shaking it; 'and have the goodness to tell Mr. Crowdey from me that the next time he comes here a bush-rangin', I'll thank him to shut the gates after him. He set all my young stock wrong the last time he was here.'