iting for the three o'clock
bus, coming from the Bank to take him to Isleworth Gate.

Jog's bellow to 'Bartholo--_m--e--w_' interrupted the journey, just as in
imagination Mr. Sponge was putting his foot on the wheel and hallooing to
the driver to hand him the strap to help him on to the box.

'Will he?' said Mr. Sponge to himself, as he heard Jog's reiterated
assertion that he would be wheezing away that day. 'Wish you may get it,
old boy,' added he, tucking the now backless _Mogg_ under his pillow, and
turning over for a snooze.

When he got down, he found the party ranged at breakfast, minus the
interesting prodigy, Gustavus James, whom Sponge proceeded to inquire after
as soon as he had made his obeisance to his host and hostess, and
distributed a round of daubed comfits to the rest of the juvenile party.

'But where's my little friend, Augustus James?' asked he, on arriving at
the wonder's high chair by the side of mamma. 'Where's my little friend,
Augustus James?' asked he, with an air of concern.

'Oh, _Gustavus_ James,' replied Mrs. Jog, with an emphasis on Gustavus;
'_Gustavus_ James is not very well this morning; had a little indigestion
during the night.'

'Poor little hound,' observed Mr. Sponge, filling his mouth with hot
kidney, glad to be rid for a time of the prodigy. 'I thought I heard a row
when I came home, which was rather late for an early man like me, but the
fact was, nothing would serve Sir Harry but I should go with him to get
some refreshment at a tenant's of his; and we got on talking, first about
one thing, and then about another, and the time slipped away so quickly,
that day was gone before I knew where I was; and though Sir Harry was most
anxious--indeed, would hardly take a refusal--for me to go home with him, I
felt that, being a guest here, I couldn't do it--at least, not then; so I
got my horse, and tried to find my way with such directions as the farmer
gave me, and soon lost my way, for the moon was uncertain, and the country
all strange both to me and my horse.'

'What farmer was it?' asked Jog, with the butter streaming down the gutters
of his chin from a mouthful of thick toast. 'Farmer--farmer--farmer--let
me see, what farmer it was,' replied Mr. Sponge thoughtfully, again
attacking the kidneys. 'Oh, farmer Beanstraw, I should say.'

'_Pea_straw, p'raps?' suggested Jog, colouring up, and staring intently at
Mr. Sponge.

'Pea--Peastraw was the name,' replied Mr. Sponge.