‘’Ord rot your great carcass!’ exclaimed he, giving the roll a hearty kick in its bulging-out stomach, on finding that he had not got it as small as he wanted. ‘’Ord rot your great carcass,’ repeated he, scratching his head and eyeing it as it lay; ’this is all the consequence of your nasty brewers’ hapron weshins—­blowin’ of one out, like a bladder!’ and, thereupon, he placed his hand on his stomach to feel how his own was.  ‘Never see’d sich a house, or sich an awful mean man!’ continued he, stooping and pommelling the package with his fists.  It was of no use, he could not get it as small as he wished—­’Must have my jacket out on you, I do believe,’ added he, seeing where the impediment was; ’sticks in your gizzard just like a lump of old Puff-and-blow’s puddin’’; and then he thrust his hand into the folds of the clothing, and pulled out the greasy garment.  ‘Now,’ said he, stooping again, ‘I think we may manish ye’; and he took the roll in his arms and hoisted it on to Hercules, whom he meant to make the led horse, observing aloud, as he adjusted it on the saddle, and whacked it well with his hands to make it lie right, ’I wish it was old Jog—­wouldn’t I sarve him out!’ He then turned his horses round in their stalls, tucked his greasy jacket under the flap of the saddle-bags, took his ash-stick from the crook, and led them out of the capacious door.  Jog looked at him with mingled feelings of disgust and delight.  Leather just gave his old hat flipe a rap with his forefinger as he passed with the horses—­a salute that Jog did not condescend to return.

Having eyed the receding horses with great satisfaction, Jog re-entered the house by the kitchens, to have the pleasure of seeing Mr. Sponge off.  He found the portmanteau and carpet-bag standing in the passage, and just at the moment the sound of the phaeton wheels fell on his ear, as Bartholomew drove round from the coach-house to the door.  Mr. Sponge was already in the parlour, making his adieus to Mrs. Jog and the children, who were all assembled for the purpose.

‘What, are you goin’?’ (puff) asked Jog, with an air of surprise.

‘Yes,’ replied Mr. Sponge; adding, as he tendered his hand, ’the best friends must part, you know.’

‘Well (puff), but you’d better have your (wheeze) horse round,’ observed Jog, anxious to avoid any overture for a return.

‘Thankee,’ replied Mr. Sponge, making a parting bow; ’I’ll get him at the stable.’

‘I’ll go with you,’ said Jog, leading the way.

Leather had saddled, and bridled, and turned him round in the stall, with one of Mr. Jog’s blanket-rugs on, which Mr. Sponge just swept over his tail into the manger, and led the horse out.

‘Adieu!’ said he, offering his hand to his host.

‘Good-bye!—­good (puff) sport to you,’ said Jog, shaking it heartily.

Mr. Sponge then mounted his hack, and cocking out his toe, rode off at a canter.

At the same moment, Bartholomew drove away from the front door; and Jog, having stood watching the phaeton over the rise of Pennypound Hill, scraped his feet, re-entered his house, and rubbing them heartily on the mat as he closed the sash-door, observed aloud to himself, with a jerk of his head: