The boy gave no answer.

‘Is old bellows-to-mend gone to bed?’ asked Mr Sponge in a louder voice.

‘The charman’s gone,’ replied the boy, who looked upon his master -- the chairman of the Stir-It-Stiff Union -- as the impersonification of all earthly greatness.

‘Dash your impittance,’ growled Jog, slinking back into the nursery -- ‘I’ll pay you off!(puff),’ added he, with a jerk of his white night-capped head, ‘I’ll bellows-to-mend you! (wheeze).’

Gustavus James’s internal qualms being at length appeased, Mr Jogglebury Crowdey returned to bed, but not to sleep -- sleep there was none for him. He was full of indignation and jealousy, and felt suspicious of the very bolster itself. He had been insulted -- grossly insulted. Three such names -- the ‘Woolpack,’ ‘Old puff-and-blow,’ and ‘Bellows-to-mend’ -- no gentleman, surely, ever was called before by a guest, in his own house. Called, too, before his own servant. What veneration, what respect, could a servant feel for a master whom he heard called ‘Old Bellows-to-mend’? It damaged the respect inspired by the chairmanship of the Stir-It-Stiff Union, to say nothing of the trusteeship of the Sloppyhocks, Tolpuddle, and other turnpike roads. It annihilated everything. So he fumed, and fretted, and snorted, and snored. Worst of all, he had no one to whom he could unburden his grievance. He could not make the partner of his bosom a partner in his woes, because -- and he bounced about so that he almost shot the clothes off the bed, at the thoughts of the ‘why.’

Thus he lay, tumbling and tossing, and fuming and wheezing and puffing, now vowing vengeance against Leather, who he recollected had called him the ‘Woolpack,’ and determining to have him turned off in the morning for his impudence -- now devising schemes for getting rid of Mr Sponge and him together. Oh, could he but see them off! could he but see the portmanteau and carpet-bag again standing in the passage, he would gladly lend his phaeton to carry them anywhere. He would drive it himself for the pleasure of knowing and feeling he was clear of them. He wouldn’t haggle about the pikes; nay, he would even give Sponge a gibbey, any he liked -- the pick of the whole -- Wellington, Napoleon Bonaparte, a crowned head even, though it would damage the set. So he lay, rolling and restless, hearing every clock strike; now trying to divert his thoughts, by making a rough calculation what all his gibbies put together were worth; now considering whether he had forgotten to go for any he had marked in the course of his peregrinations; now wishing he had laid one about old Leather, when he fell on his knees after calling him the ‘Woolpack;’ then wondering whether Leather would have had him before the County Court for damages, or taken him before Justice Slowcoach for the assault. As morning advanced, his thoughts again turned upon the best mode of getting rid of his most unwelcome guests, and he arose and dressed, with the full determination of trying what he could do.

Having tried the effects of an upstairs shout the morning before, he decided to see what a down one would do; accordingly, he mounted the stairs and climbed the sort of companion-ladder that led to the servants attics, where he kept a stock of gibbies in the rafters. Having reached this, he cleared his throat, laid his head over the banisters, and putting an open hand on each side of his mouth to direct the sound, exclaimed with a loud and audible voice.

‘Bartholo-m-e-w!

‘Bart-tho-lo-m-e-e-w!’ repeated he, after a pause, with a full separation of the syllables and a prolonged intonation of the m-e-w.

No Bartholomew answered.

‘Murry Ann!’ then hallooed Jog, in a sharper, quicker key. ‘Murry Ann!’ repeated he, still louder, after a pause.