h-coveted departure. His pleasure was, perhaps, rather
damped by a running commentary he overheard through the lattice-window of
the stable, from Leather, as he stripped his horses and tried to roll up
their clothing in a moderate compass.

''Ord rot your great carcass!' exclaimed he, giving the roll a hearty kick
in its bulging-out stomach, on finding that he had not got it as small as
he wanted. ''Ord rot your great carcass,' repeated he, scratching his head
and eyeing it as it lay; 'this is all the consequence of your nasty
brewers' hapron weshins--blowin' of one out, like a bladder!' and,
thereupon, he placed his hand on his stomach to feel how his own was.
'Never see'd sich a house, or sich an awful mean man!' continued he,
stooping and pommelling the package with his fists. It was of no use, he
could not get it as small as he wished--'Must have my jacket out on you, I
do believe,' added he, seeing where the impediment was; 'sticks in your
gizzard just like a lump of old Puff-and-blow's puddin''; and then he
thrust his hand into the folds of the clothing, and pulled out the greasy
garment. 'Now,' said he, stooping again, 'I think we may manish ye'; and he
took the roll in his arms and hoisted it on to Hercules, whom he meant to
make the led horse, observing aloud, as he adjusted it on the saddle, and
whacked it well with his hands to make it lie right, 'I wish it was old
Jog--wouldn't I sarve him out!' He then turned his horses round in their
stalls, tucked his greasy jacket under the flap of the saddle-bags, took
his ash-stick from the crook, and led them out of the capacious door. Jog
looked at him with mingled feelings of disgust and delight. Leather just
gave his old hat flipe a rap with his forefinger as he passed with the
horses--a salute that Jog did not condescend to return.

Having eyed the receding horses with great satisfaction, Jog re-entered the
house by the kitchens, to have the pleasure of seeing Mr. Sponge off. He
found the portmanteau and carpet-bag standing in the passage, and just at
the moment the sound of the phaeton wheels fell on his ear, as Bartholomew
drove round from the coach-house to the door. Mr. Sponge was already in
the parlour, making his adieus to Mrs. Jog and the children, who were all
assembled for the purpose.

'What, are you goin'?' (puff) asked Jog, with an air of surprise.

'Yes,' replied Mr. Sponge; adding, as he tendered his hand, 'the best
friends must part, you know.'