The invitation came most opportunely; for, worn out with jealousy and watching, Jog had made up his mind to cut to Australia, and when Sponge returned after meeting Facey, Jog was in the act of combing out an advertisement, offering all that desirable sporting residence called Puddingpote Bower, with the coach-house, stables, and offices thereunto belonging, to let, and announcing that the whole of the valuable household furniture, comprising mahogany, dining, loo, card, and Pembroke tables; sofa, couch, and chairs in hair seating; cheffonier, with plate glass; book-case; flower-stands; pianoforte, by Collard and Collard; music-stool and Canterbury; chimney and pier-glasses; mirror; ormolu time-piece; alabaster and wax figures and shades; china; Brussels carpets and rugs; fenders and fire-irons; curtains and cornices; Venetian blinds; mahogany four-post, French, and camp bedsteads; feather beds; hair mattresses; mahogany chests of drawers; dressing-glasses; wash and dressing-tables; patent shower-bath; bed and table-linen; dinner and tea-ware; warming-pans, &c., would be exposed to immediate and unreserved sale.

How gratefully Sponge’s inquiry if he knew Mr. Romford fell on his ear, as they sat moodily together after dinner over some very low-priced port.

’Oh yes (puff)—­oh yes (wheeze)—­oh yes (gasp)!  Know Charley Romford—­Facey, as they call him.  He’s (puff, wheeze, gasp) heir to old Mr. Gilroy, of Queercove Hill.’

‘Just so,’ rejoined Sponge, ’just so; that’s the man—­stout, square-built fellow, with backward-growing whiskers.  I’m going to stay with him to shoot at old Gil’s.  Where does Charley live?’

‘Live!’ exclaimed Jog, almost choked with delight at the information; ‘live! live!’ repeated he, for the third time; ’lives at (puff, wheeze, gasp, cough) Washingforde—­yes, at Washingforde; ’bout ten miles from (puff, wheeze) here.  When d’ye go?’

‘To-morrow,’ replied Sponge, with an air of offended dignity.

Jog was so rejoiced that he could hardly sit on his chair.

Mrs. Jog, when she heard it, felt that Gustavus James’s chance of independence was gone; for well she knew that Jog would never let Sponge come back to the Bower.

We need scarcely say that Jog was up betimes in the morning, most anxious to forward Mr. Sponge’s departure.  He offered to allow Bartholomew to convey him and his ‘traps’ in the phaeton—­an offer that Mr. Sponge availed himself of as far as his ‘traps’ were concerned, though he preferred cantering over on his piebald to trailing along in Jog’s jingling chay.  So matters were arranged, and Mr. Sponge forthwith proceeded to put his brown boots, his substantial cords, his superfine tights, his cuttey scarlet, his dress blue saxony, his clean linen, his heavy spurs, and though last, not least in importance, his now backless Mogg, into his solid leather portmanteau, sweeping the surplus of his wardrobe into a capacious carpet-bag.  While the guest was thus busy upstairs, the host wandered about restlessly, now stirring up this person, now hurrying that, in the full enjoyment of the much-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.