Mr. Sponge was rather nonplussed. His red coat did not command the respect that a red coat generally does. The fact was, they had such queer people in red coats at Nonsuch House, that a red coat was rather an object of suspicion than otherwise.
'Well, but, my good woman,' continued Mr. Sponge, softening his tone, 'can you tell me where I shall find anybody who can tell me anything about the hounds?'
'No,' growled the woman, still flopping, and whisking, and knocking the furniture about.
'I'll remember you for your trouble,' observed Mr. Sponge, diving his right hand into his breeches' pocket.
'Mr. Bottleends be gone to bed,' observed the woman, now ceasing her evolutions, and parting her grisly, disordered tresses, as she advanced and stood staring, with her arms akimbo, out of the window. She was the under-housemaid's deputy; all the servants at Nonsuch House doing the rough of their work by deputy. Lady Scattercash was a real lady, and liked to have the credit of the house maintained, which of course can only be done by letting the upper servants do nothing. 'Mr. Bottleends be gone to bed,' observed the woman.
'Mr. Bottleends?' repeated Mr. Sponge; 'who's he?'
'The butler, to be sure,' replied she, astonished that any person should have to ask who such an important personage was.
'Can't you call him?' asked Mr. Sponge, still fumbling in his pocket.
'Couldn't, if it was ever so,' replied the dame, smoothing her dirty blue-checked apron with her still dirtier hand.
'Why not?' asked Mr. Sponge.