e 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 gibbeys 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_!'

'BAR--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.

'MURRAY ANN!' then hallooed Jog, in a sharper, quicker key.
'MURRAY ANN!' repeated he, still louder, after a pause.

'Yes, sir! here, sir!' exclaimed that invaluable servant, tidying her
pink-ribboned cap as she hurried into the passage below. Looking up, she
caught sight of her master's great sallow chaps hanging like a flitch of
bacon over the garret banister.

'Oh, Murry Ann,' bellowed Mr. Jog, at the top of his voice, still holding
his hands to his mouth, as soon as he saw her, 'Oh, Murry Ann, you'd better
get the (puff) breakfast ready; I think the (gasp) Mr. Sponge will be
(wheezing) away to-day.'

'Yes, sir,' replied Mary Ann.

'And tell Bartholomew to get his washin' bills in.'

'He harn't had no washin' done,' replied Mary Ann, raising her voice to
correspond with that of her master.

'Then his bill for postage,' replied Mr. Jog, in the same tone.

'He harn't had no letters neither,' replied Mary Ann.

'Oh, then, just get the breakfast ready,' rejoined Jog, adding, 'he'll be
(wheezing) away as soon as he gets it, I (puff) expect.'

'Will he?' said Mr. Sponge to himself, as, with throbbing head, he lay
tumbling about in bed, alleviating the recollections of the previous day's
debauch with an occasional dive into his old friend _Mogg_. Corporeally, he
was in bed at Puddingpote Bower, but mentally, he was at the door of the
Goose and Gridiron, in St. Paul's Churchyard, wa