and feeling he was clear of them.  He wouldn’t haggle about the pikes; nay, he would even give Sponge a gibbey, any he liked—­the pick of the whole—­Wellington, Napoleon Bonaparte, a crowned head even, though it would damage the set.  So he lay, rolling and restless, hearing every clock strike; now trying to divert his thoughts, by making a rough calculation what all his gibbeys put together were worth; now considering whether he had forgotten to go for any he had marked in the course of his peregrinations; now wishing he had laid one about old Leather, when he fell on his knees after calling him the ‘Woolpack’; then wondering whether Leather would have had him before the County Court for damages, or taken him before Justice Slowcoach for the assault.  As morning advanced, his thoughts again turned upon the best mode of getting rid of his most unwelcome guests, and he arose and dressed, with the full determination of trying what he could do.

Having tried the effects of an upstairs shout the morning before, he decided to see what a down one would do; accordingly, he mounted the stairs and climbed the sort of companion-ladder that led to the servants’ attics, where he kept a stock of gibbeys in the rafters.  Having reached this, he cleared his throat, laid his head over the banisters, and putting an open hand on each side of his mouth to direct the sound, exclaimed with a loud and audible voice: 

‘BARTHOLO—­m—­e—­w!’

‘BAR—­THO—­LO—­m—­e—­e—­w!’ repeated he, after a pause, with a full separation of the syllables and a prolonged intonation of the m—­e—­w.

No Bartholomew answered.

‘MURRAY ANN!’ then hallooed Jog, in a sharper, quicker key. 
‘MURRAY ANN!’ repeated he, still louder, after a pause.

‘Yes, sir! here, sir!’ exclaimed that invaluable servant, tidying her pink-ribboned cap as she hurried into the passage below.  Looking up, she caught sight of her master’s great sallow chaps hanging like a flitch of bacon over the garret banister.

‘Oh, Murry Ann,’ bellowed Mr. Jog, at the top of his voice, still holding his hands to his mouth, as soon as he saw her, ’Oh, Murry Ann, you’d better get the (puff) breakfast ready; I think the (gasp) Mr. Sponge will be (wheezing) away to-day.’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Mary Ann.

‘And tell Bartholomew to get his washin’ bills in.’

‘He harn’t had no washin’ done,’ replied Mary Ann, raising her voice to correspond with that of her master.

‘Then his bill for postage,’ replied Mr. Jog, in the same tone.

‘He harn’t had no letters neither,’ replied Mary Ann.

‘Oh, then, just get the breakfast ready,’ rejoined Jog, adding, ’he’ll be (wheezing) away as soon as he gets it, I (puff) expect.’

‘Will he?’ said Mr. Sponge to himself, as, with throbbing head, he lay tumbling about in bed, alleviating the recollections of the previous day’s debauch with an occasional dive into his old friend Mogg.  Corporeally, he was in bed at Puddingpote Bower, but mentally, he was at the door of the Goose and Gridiron, in St. Paul’s Churchyard, waiting for the three o’clock bus, coming from the Bank to take him to Isleworth Gate.