de of his host, asking him whether he 'was good
for a ride, a walk, or what?'

'A (puff) ride, a (wheeze) walk, or a (gasp) what?' repeated Jog
thoughtfully. 'No, I (puff) think I'll stay at (puff) home,' thinking that
would be the safest plan.

''Ord, hang it, you'll never lie at earth such a day as this!' exclaimed
Sponge, looking out on the bright, sunny landscape.

'Got a great deal to do,' retorted Jog, who, like all thoroughly idle men,
was always dreadfully busy. He then dived into a bundle of rough sticks,
and proceeded to select one to fashion into the head of Mr. Hume. Sponge,
being unable to make anything of him, was obliged to exhaust the day in the
stable, and in sauntering about the country. It was clear Jog was
determined to be rid of him, and he was sadly puzzled what to do. Dinner
found his host in no better humour, and after a sort of Quakers' meeting of
an evening, they parted heartily sick of each other.

CHAPTER LV

THE TRIGGER

Jog slept badly again, and arose next morning full of projects for getting
rid of his impudent, unceremonious, free-and-easy guest.

Having tried both an up and a downstairs shout, he now went out and planted
himself immediately under Mr. Sponge's bedroom window, and, clearing his
voice, commenced his usual vociferations.

'Bartholo--_m--e--w_!' whined he. '_Bartholo--m--e--w_!' repeated he,
somewhat louder. 'BAR--THOLO--_m--e--w_!' roared he, in a voice of
thunder.

Bartholomew did not answer.

'Murry Ann!' exclaimed Jog, after a pause. '_Murry Ann!_' repeated he,
still louder. 'MURRAY ANN!' roared he, at the top of his voice.

'Comin', sir! comin'!' exclaimed Mary Ann, peeping down upon him from the
garret-window.

'Oh, Murry Ann,' cried Mr. Jog, looking up, and catching the ends of her
blue ribbons streaming past the window-frame, as she changed her nightcap
for a day one, 'oh, Murry Ann, you'd better be (puff)in' forrard with the
(gasp) breakfast; Mr. Sponge'll most likely be (wheeze)in' away to-day.'

'Yes, sir,' replied Mary Ann, adjusting the cap becomingly.

'Confounded, puffing, wheezing, gasping, broken-winded old blockhead it
is!' growled Mr. Sponge, wishing he could get to his former earth at
Puffington's, or anywhere else. When he got down he found Jog in a very
roomy, bright, green-plush shooting-jacket, with pockets innumerable, and a
whistle suspended to a button-hole. His nether man was encased in a pair of
most dilapidated white mol