'Ah, Mr. Sponge!' exclaimed Mr. Buckram, who, having seen our friend
advancing up the little twisting approach from the road to his house
through a little square window almost blinded with Irish ivy, out of which
he was in the habit of contemplating the arrival of his occasional lodgers,
Doe and Roe. 'Ah, Mr. Sponge!' exclaimed he, with well-assumed gaiety; 'you
should have been here yesterday; sent away two sich osses--perfect
'unters--the werry best I do think I ever saw in my life; either would have
bin the werry oss for your money. But come in, Mr. Sponge, sir, come in,'
continued he, backing himself through a little sentry-box of a green
portico, to a narrow passage which branched off into little rooms on either
side.

As Buckram made this retrograde movement, he gave a gentle pull to the
wooden handle of an old-fashioned wire bell-pull in the midst of buggy,
four-in-hand, and other whips, hanging in the entrance, a touch that was
acknowledged by a single tinkle of the bell in the stable-yard.

They then entered the little room on the right, whose walls were decorated
with various sporting prints chiefly illustrative of steeple-chases, with
here and there a stunted fox-brush, tossing about as a duster. The
ill-ventilated room reeked with the effluvia of stale smoke, and the faded
green baize of a little round table in the centre was covered with
filbert-shells and empty ale-glasses. The whole furniture of the room
wasn't worth five pounds.

Mr. Sponge, being now on the dealing tack, commenced in the
poverty-stricken strain adapted to the occasion. Having deposited his hat
on the floor, taken his left leg up to nurse, and given his hair a backward
rub with his right hand, he thus commenced: