Well, that's my work,' he observed, scratching his head, 'at least, my hack's; and from here, home,' he continued, measuring away as he spoke, 'will be twelve or thirteen.

Well, that's nothing,' he said.

'Now for the horse,' he continued, again applying the lighter in a different direction.

'From here to Hardington will be, say, eight miles; from Hardington to Bewley, other five; eight and five are thirteen; and there, I should say, he might sleep.
That would leave ten or twelve miles for the morning; nothing for a hack hunter; 'specially such a horse as that, and one that's done nothing for I don't know how long.' Altogether, Mr.Sponge determined to try it, especially considering that if he didn't get Tuesday, there would be nothing till Thursday; and he was not the man to keep a hack hunter standing idle.
Accordingly he sought Mr.Leather, whom he found busily engaged in the servants' apartment, with a cold round of beef and a foaming flagon of ale before him.
'Leather,' he said, in a tone of authority, 'I'll hunt to-morrow--ride the horse I should have ridden to-day.' 'Where at ?' asked Leather, diving his fork into a bottle of pickles, and fishing out an onion.
'The cross-roads,' replied Sponge.
'The cross-roads be fifty miles from here!' cried Leather.
'Nonsense!' rejoined Sponge; 'I've just measured the distance.

It's nothing of the sort.' 'How far do you make it, then ?' asked Leather, tucking in the beef.
'Why, from here to Hardington is about six, and from Hardington to Bewley, four--ten in all,' replied Sponge.