'Better valk the chestnut,' replied Mr. Leather; 'Multum in Parvo hasn't 'ad a good day this I don't know wen, and will be all the better of a bucketin'.'
'But I hate crawling to cover on my horse,' replied Mr. Sponge, who liked cantering along with a flourish.
'You'll have to crawl if you ride 'Ercles,' observed Leather, 'if not walk. Bless you! I've been a-nussin' of him and the 'ack most the 'ole night.'
'Indeed!' replied Mr. Sponge, who began to be alarmed lest his hunting might be brought to an abrupt termination.
'True as I'm 'ere,' rejoined Leather. 'He's just as much off his grub as he vos when he com'd in; never see'd an 'oss more reg'larly dished—more—'
'Well, well,' said Mr. Sponge, interrupting the catalogue of grievances; 'I s'pose I must do as you say—I s'pose I must do as you say: what sort of a day is it?'
'Vy, the day's not a bad day; at least that's to say, it's not a wery haggrivatin' day. I've seen a betterer day, in course; but I've also seen many a much worser day, and days at this time of year, you know, are apt to change—sometimes, in course, for the betterer—sometimes, in course, for the worser.'
'Is it a frost?' snapped Mr. Sponge, tired of his loquacity.
'Is it a frost?' repeated Mr. Leather thoughtfully; 'is it a frost? Vy, no; I should say it isn't a frost—at least, not a frost to 'urt; there may be a little rind on the ground and a little rawness in the hair, but the general concatenation—'
'Hout, tout!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, 'let's have none of your dictionary words.'