Now, for the hiccup day.
It is generally a frost on New Year's Day. However wet and sloppy the weather may be up to the end of the year, it generally turns over a new leaf on that day. New Year's Day is generally a bright, bitter, sunshiny day, with starry ice, and a most decided anti-hunting feeling about it—light, airy, ringy, anything but cheery for hunting.
Thus it was in Sir Harry Scattercash's county. Having smoked and drunk the old year out, the captains and company retired to their couches without thinking about hunting. Mr. Sponge, indeed, was about tired of asking when the hounds would be going out. It was otherwise, however, with the rising generation, who were up betimes, and began pouring in upon Nonsuch House in every species of garb, on every description of steed, by every line and avenue of approach.
'Halloo! what's up now?' exclaimed Lady Scattercash, as she caught view of the first batch rounding the corner to the front of the house.
'Who have we here?' asked Miss Glitters, as a ponderous, parti-coloured clown, on a great, curly-coated cart-horse, brought up the rear.
'Early callers,' observed Captain Seedeybuck, eating away complacently.
'Friends of Mr. Sponge's, most likely,' suggested Captain Quod.
'Some of the little Sponges come to see their pa, p'raps,' lisped Miss Howard, pretending to be shocked after she had said it.
'Bravo, Miss Howard!' exclaimed Captain Cutitfat, clapping his hands.