The pint of wine apiece--at least, as near a pint apiece as Spigot could afford to let them have--somewhat strung Jack's nerves as well as his eyes, and he began to show more of the pupils and less of the whites than he did.

He buzzed the bottle with such a hearty good will as settled the fate of another, which Sponge rang for as a matter of course.

There was but the rejected one, which, however.

Spigot put into a different decanter, and brought in with such an air as precluded either of them saying a word in disparagement of it.
'Where are the hounds next week ?' asked Sponge, sipping away at it.
'Monday, Larkhall Hill; Tuesday, the cross-roads by Dallington Burn; Thursday, the Toll-bar at Whitburrow Green; Saturday, the kennels,' replied Jack.
'Good places ?' asked Sponge.
'Monday's good,' replied Jack; 'draw Thorney Gorse--sure find; second draw, Barnlow Woods, and home by Loxley, Padmore, and so on.' 'What sort of a place is Tuesday ?' 'Tuesday ?' repeated Jack.

'Tuesday! Oh, that's the cross-roads.