added to which, Mr. Crowdey carried the principles of the poor-law union into his own establishment, and dieted his servants upon certain rules.  Sunday, roast beef, potatoes, and pudding under the meat; Monday, fried beef, and stick-jaw (as they profanely called a certain pudding); Wednesday, leg of mutton, and so on.  The allowance of beer was a pint and a half per diem to Bartholomew, and a pint to each woman; and Mr. Crowdey used to observe from the head of the servants’ dinner-table on the arrival of each cargo, ’Now this (puff) beer is to (wheeze) a month, and, if you choose to drink it in a (gasp) day, you’ll go without any for the rest of the (wheeze) time’; an intimation that had a very favourable effect upon the tap.  Mr. Leather, however, did not like it.  ’Puffington’s servants,’ he said, ‘had beer whenever they chose,’ and he thought it ‘awful mean’ restricting the quantity.  Mr. Jog, however, was not to be moved.  Thus time crawled heavily on.

Mr. and Mrs. Jog had a long confab one night on the expediency of getting rid of Mr. Sponge.  Mrs. Jog wanted to keep him on till after the christening; while Jog combated her reasons by representing the improbability of its doing Gustavus James any good having him for a godpapa, seeing Sponge’s age, and the probability of his marrying himself.  Mrs. Jog, however, was very determined; rather too much so, indeed, for she awakened Jog’s jealousy, who lay tossing and tumbling about all through the night.

He was up very early, and as Mrs. Jog was falling into a comfortable nap, she was aroused by his well-known voice hallooing as loud as he could in the middle of the entrance-passage.

‘BARTHOLO-me-e-w!’ the last syllable being pronounced or prolonged like a mew of a cat.  ‘BARTHOLO-me-e-w!’ repeated he, not getting an answer to the first shout.

‘MURRY ANN!’ shouted he, after another pause.

‘MURRY ANN!’ exclaimed he, still louder.

Just then, the iron latch of a door at the top of the house opened, and a female voice exclaimed hurriedly over the banisters: 

‘Yes, sir! here, sir! comin’ sir! comin’!’

‘Oh, Murry Ann (puff), that’s (wheeze) you, is it?’ asked Jog, still speaking at the top of his voice.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Mary Ann.

’Oh! then, Murry Ann, I wanted to (puff)—­that you’d better get the (puff) breakfast ready early.  I think Mr. (gasp)—­Sponge will be (wheezing) away to-day.’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Mary Ann.

All this was said in such a tone as could not fail to be heard all over the house; certainly into Mr. Sponge’s room, which was midway between the speakers.

What prevented Mr. Sponge wheezing away, will appear in the next chapter.

CHAPTER L

SIR HARRY SCATTERCASH’S HOUNDS

[Illustration]

The reason Mr. Sponge did not take his departure, after the pretty intelligible hint given by his host, was that, as he was passing his shilling army razor over his soapy chin, he saw a stockingless lad, in a purply coat and faded hunting-cap, making his way up to the house, at a pace that betokened more than ordinary vagrancy.  It was the kennel, stable, and servants’ hall courier of Nonsuch House, come to say that Sir Harry hunted that day.