Mrs. Jog was busy with the rhubarb and magnesia, and the others said nothing.  After the lapse of a few minutes, the clank, clank, clank of Mr. Sponge’s spurs was heard as he passed round to the front, and Mr. Jog stole out on to the landing to hear how he would get in.

Thump! thump! thump! went Mr. Sponge at the door; rap—­tap—­tap he went at it with his whip.

‘Comin’, sir! comin’!’ exclaimed Bartholomew from the inside.

Presently the shooting of bolts, the withdrawal of bands, and the opening of doors, were heard.

‘Not gone to bed yet, old boy?’ said Mr. Sponge, as he entered.

‘No, thir!’ snuffled the boy, who had a bad cold, ’been thitten up for you.’

‘Old puff-and-blow gone?’ asked Mr. Sponge, depositing his hat and whip on a chair.

The boy gave no answer.

‘Is old bellows-to-mend gone to bed?’ asked Mr. Sponge in a louder voice.

‘The charman’s gone,’ replied the boy, who looked upon his master—­the chairman of the Stir-it-stiff Union—­as the impersonification of all earthly greatness.

‘Dash your impittance,’ growled Jog, slinking back into the nursery; ’I’ll pay you off! (puff),’ added he, with a jerk of his white night-capped head, ‘I’ll bellows-to-mend you! (wheeze).’

CHAPTER LIV

FAMILY JARS

Gustavus James’s internal qualms being at length appeased, Mr. Jogglebury Crowdey returned to bed, but not to sleep—­sleep there was none for him.  He was full of indignation and jealousy, and felt suspicious of the very bolster itself.  He had been insulted—­grossly insulted.  Three such names—­the ‘Woolpack,’ ‘Old puff-and-blow,’ and ’Bellows-to-mend’—­no gentleman, surely, ever was called before by a guest, in his own house.  Called, too, before his own servant.  What veneration, what respect, could a servant feel for a master whom he heard called ‘Old bellows-to-mend’?  It damaged the respect inspired by the chairmanship of the Stir-it-stiff Union, to say nothing of the trusteeship of the Sloppyhocks, Tolpuddle, and other turnpike-roads.  It annihilated everything.  So he fumed, and fretted, and snorted, and snored.  Worst of all, he had no one to whom he could unburden his grievance.  He could not make the partner of his bosom a partner in his woes, because—­and he bounced about so that he almost shot the clothes off the bed, at the thoughts of the ‘why.’

Thus he lay tumbling and tossing, and fuming and wheezing and puffing, now vowing vengeance against Leather, who he recollected had called him the ‘Woolpack,’ and determining to have him turned off in the morning for his impudence—­now devising schemes for getting rid of Mr. Sponge and him together.  Oh, could he but see them off! could he but see the portmanteau and carpet-bag again standing in the passage, he would gladly lend his phaeton to carry them anywhere.  He would drive it himself for the pleasure of knowing