‘Oh, Jog! What’s the matter now? (puff -- wheeze -- gasp),’ exclaimed our friend, reddening up, and fixing his stupid eyes intently on his wife.

‘Oh, nothing,’ replied Mrs Jog, unclasping her hands, and bringing down her eyes.

‘Oh, nothin’!’ retorted Jog. ‘Nothin’!’ repeated he. ‘Ladies don’t get into such tantrums for nothin’.’

‘Well, then, Jog, I was thinking if anything should have ha--ha--happened Mr Sponge, how Gustavus Ja-- Ja--James will have lost his chance.’ And thereupon she dived for her lace-fringed pocket-handkerchief, and hurried out of the room.

But Mrs Jog had said quite enough to make the caldren of Jog’s jealousy boil over, and he sat staring into the fire, imagining all sorts of horrible devices in the coals and cinders, and conjuring up all sorts of evils, until he felt himself possessed of a hundred and twenty thousand devils.

‘I’ll get shot of this chap at last,’ said he, with a knowing jerk of his head and a puff into his frill, as he drew his thick legs under his chair, and made a semicircle to get at the bottle. ‘I’ll get shot of this chap,’ repeated he, pouring himself out a bumper of the syrupy port, and eyeing it at the composite candle. He drained off the glass, and immediately filled another. That, too, went down; then he took another, and another, and another; and seeing the bottle get low, he thought he might as well finish it. He felt better after it. Not that he was a bit more reconciled to our friend Mr Sponge, but he felt more equal to cope with him -- he even felt as if he could fight him. There did not, however, seem to be much likelihood of his having to perform that ceremony, for nine o’clock struck and no Mr Sponge, and at half-past Mr Crowdey stumped off to bed.

Mrs Crowdey, having given Bartholomew and Susan a dirty pack of cards to play with to keep them awake till Mr Sponge arrived, went to bed, too, and the house was presently tranquil.

It, however, happened, that that amazing prodigy, Gustavus James, having been out on a sort of eleemosynary excursion among the neighbouring farmers and people, exhibiting as well his fine blue feathered hat, as his astonishing proficiency in ‘Bah! bah! black sheep,’ and ‘Obin and Ichard,’ getting seed-cake from one, sponge-cake from another, and toffee from a third, was troubled with a very bad stomach-ache during the night, of which he soon made the house sensible by his screams and his cries. Jog and his wife were presently at him; and, as Jog sat in his white cotton nightcap and flowing flannel dressing- gown in an easy-chair in the nursery, he heard the crack of the whip, and the prolonged yeea-yu-u-p of Mr Sponge’s arrival. Presently the trampling of a horse was heard passing round to the stable. The clock then struck one.

‘Pretty hour for a man to come home to a strange house!’ observed Mr Jog, for the nurse, or Murry Ann, or Mrs Jog, or anyone that liked, to take up.

Mrs Jog was busy with the rhubarb and magnesia, and the others said nothing. After the lapse of a few minutes, the clank, clank, clank of Mr Sponge’s spurs was heard as he passed round to the front, and Mr Jog stole out on to the landing to hear how be would get in.

Thump! thump! thump! went Mr Sponge at the door; rap--tap--tap, he went at it with his whip.

‘Comin’, sir! comin’!’ exclaimed Bartholomew from the inside.

Presently the shooting of bolts, the withdrawal of bands, and the opening of doors, were heard.

‘Not gone to bed yet, old boy?’ said Mr Sponge, as he entered.

‘No thir!’ snuffled the boy; who had a bad cold, ‘been thitten up for you.’

‘Old puff-and-blow gone?’ asked Mr Sponge, depositing his hat and whip on a chair.