Jog’s bellow to ‘Bartholo—­m—­e—­w’ interrupted the journey, just as in imagination Mr. Sponge was putting his foot on the wheel and hallooing to the driver to hand him the strap to help him on to the box.

‘Will he?’ said Mr. Sponge to himself, as he heard Jog’s reiterated assertion that he would be wheezing away that day.  ’Wish you may get it, old boy,’ added he, tucking the now backless Mogg under his pillow, and turning over for a snooze.

When he got down, he found the party ranged at breakfast, minus the interesting prodigy, Gustavus James, whom Sponge proceeded to inquire after as soon as he had made his obeisance to his host and hostess, and distributed a round of daubed comfits to the rest of the juvenile party.

‘But where’s my little friend, Augustus James?’ asked he, on arriving at the wonder’s high chair by the side of mamma.  ’Where’s my little friend, Augustus James?’ asked he, with an air of concern.

‘Oh, Gustavus James,’ replied Mrs. Jog, with an emphasis on Gustavus; ’Gustavus James is not very well this morning; had a little indigestion during the night.’

‘Poor little hound,’ observed Mr. Sponge, filling his mouth with hot kidney, glad to be rid for a time of the prodigy.  ’I thought I heard a row when I came home, which was rather late for an early man like me, but the fact was, nothing would serve Sir Harry but I should go with him to get some refreshment at a tenant’s of his; and we got on talking, first about one thing, and then about another, and the time slipped away so quickly, that day was gone before I knew where I was; and though Sir Harry was most anxious—­indeed, would hardly take a refusal—­for me to go home with him, I felt that, being a guest here, I couldn’t do it—­at least, not then; so I got my horse, and tried to find my way with such directions as the farmer gave me, and soon lost my way, for the moon was uncertain, and the country all strange both to me and my horse.’

‘What farmer was it?’ asked Jog, with the butter streaming down the gutters of his chin from a mouthful of thick toast.  ’Farmer—­farmer—­farmer—­let me see, what farmer it was,’ replied Mr. Sponge thoughtfully, again attacking the kidneys.  ‘Oh, farmer Beanstraw, I should say.’

‘Peastraw, p’raps?’ suggested Jog, colouring up, and staring intently at Mr. Sponge.

‘Pea—­Peastraw was the name,’ replied Mr. Sponge.

‘I know him,’ said Jog; ‘Peastraw of Stoke.’

‘Ah, he said he knew you.’ replied Mr. Sponge.

‘Did he?’ asked Jog eagerly.  ‘What did he say?’

‘Say—­let me see what he said,’ replied he, pretending to recollect.’  He said “you are a deuced good feller,” and I’d to make his compliments to you, and to say that there were some nice young ash saplings on his farm that you were welcome to cut.’

‘Did he?’ exclaimed Jog; ’I’m sure that’s very (puff) polite of him.  I’ll (wheeze) over there the first opportunity.’