pens, while others were great, clumsy, heavy-heeled, cart-horse sort of things, clotted up to the hocks with ink, or split all the way through—­vexatious apologies, that throw a person over just at the critical moment, when he has got his sheet prepared and his ideas all ready to pour upon paper; then splut—­splut—­splutter goes the pen, and away goes the train of thought.  Bold is the man who undertakes to write his letters in his bedroom with country-house pens.  But, to our friends.  Jack and Sponge slept next door to each other; Sponge, as we have already said, occupying the state-room, with its canopy-topped bedstead, carved and panelled sides, and elegant chintz curtains lined with pink, and massive silk-and-bullion tassels; while Jack occupied the dressing-room, which was the state bedroom in miniature, only a good deal more comfortable.  The rooms communicated with double doors, and our friends very soon effected a passage.

’Have you any ‘baccy?’ asked Jack, waddling in in his slippers, after having sucked off his tops without the aid of a boot-jack.

‘There’s some in my jacket pocket,’ replied Sponge, nodding to where it hung in the wardrobe; ‘but it won’t do to smoke here, will it?’ asked he.

‘Why not?’ inquired Jack.

‘Such a fine room,’ replied Sponge, looking around.

‘Oh, fine be hanged!’ replied Jack, adding, as he made for the jacket, ’no place too fine for smokin’ in.’

Having helped himself to one of the best cigars, and lighted it, Jack composed himself cross-legged in an easy, spring, stuffed chair, while Sponge fussed about among the writing implements, watering and stirring up the clotted ink, and denouncing each pen in succession, as he gave it the initiatory trial in writing the word ‘Sponge.’

‘Curse the pens!’ exclaimed he, throwing the last bright crisp yellow thing from him in disgust.  ’There’s not one among ’em that can go!—­all reg’larly stumped up.’

‘Haven’t you a penknife?’ asked Jack, taking the cigar out of his mouth.

‘Not I,’ replied Sponge.

‘Take a razor, then,’ said Jack, who was good at an expedient.

‘I’ll take one of yours,’ said Sponge, going into the dressing-room for one.  ‘Hang it, but you’re rather too sharp,’ exclaimed Jack, with a shake of his head.

’It’s more than your razor ‘ll be when I’m done with it,’ replied Sponge.

Having at length, with the aid of Jack’s razor, succeeded in getting a pen that would write, Mr. Sponge selected a sheet of best cream-laid satin paper, and, taking a cane-bottomed chair, placed himself at the table in an attitude for writing.  Dipping the fine yellow pen in the ink, he looked in Jack’s face for an idea.  Jack, who had now got well advanced in the cigar, sat squinting through his spectacles at our scribe, though apparently looking at the top of the bed.

‘Well?’ said Sponge, with a look of inquiry.

‘Well,’ replied Jack, in a tone of indifference.