y out, as if after her
keys, to tell Susan to keep so-and-so in the meat-screen, and have a few
potatoes ready to boil against Mr. Sponge arrived. She then sidled back
quietly into the room. Jog and she presently proceeded to that
all-important meal. Jog blowing out the company candles on the side-table
as he passed.

Jog munched away with a capital appetite; but Mrs. Jog, who took the bulk
of her lading in at the children's dinner, sat trifling with the contents
of her plate, listening alternately for the sound of horses' hoofs outside,
and for nursery squalls in.

Dinner passed over, and the fruity port and sugary sherry soon usurped the
places that stick-jaw pudding and cheese had occupied.

'Mr. (puff) Sponge must be (wheeze), I think,' observed Jog, hauling his
great silver watch out, like a bucket, from his fob, on seeing that it only
wanted ten minutes to seven.

'Oh, Jog!' exclaimed Mrs. Jog, clasping her beautiful hands, and casting
her bright beady eyes up to the low ceiling.

'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 caldron 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 semi-circle 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