‘Oh, Jog!  What’s the matter now? (puff—­wheeze—­gasp),’ exclaimed our friend, reddening up, and fixing his stupid eyes intently on his wife.

‘Oh, nothing,’ replied Mrs. Jog, unclasping her hands, and bringing down her eyes.

‘Oh, nothin’!’ retorted Jog.  ‘Nothin’!’ repeated he.  ’Ladies don’t get into such tantrums for nothin’.’

’Well, then, Jog, I was thinking if anything should have ha—­ha—­happened Mr. Sponge, how Gustavus Ja—­Ja—­James will have lost his chance.’  And thereupon she dived for her lace-fringed pocket-handkerchief, and hurried out of the room.

But Mrs. Jog had said quite enough to make the caldron of Jog’s jealousy boil over, and he sat staring into the fire, imagining all sorts of horrible devices in the coals and cinders, and conjuring up all sorts of evils, until he felt himself possessed of a hundred and twenty thousand devils.

‘I’ll get shot of this chap at last,’ said he, with a knowing jerk of his head and a puff into his frill, as he drew his thick legs under his chair, and made a semi-circle to get at the bottle.  ‘I’ll get shot of this chap,’ repeated he, pouring himself out a bumper of the syrupy port, and eyeing it at the composite candle.  He drained off the glass, and immediately filled another.  That, too, went down; then he took another, and another, and another; and seeing the bottle get low, he thought he might as well finish it.  He felt better after it.  Not that he was a bit more reconciled to our friend Mr. Sponge, but he felt more equal to cope with him—­he even felt as if he could fight him.  There did not, however, seem to be much likelihood of his having to perform that ceremony, for nine o’clock struck and no Mr. Sponge, and at half-past Mr. Crowdey stumped off to bed.

Mrs. Crowdey, having given Bartholomew and Susan a dirty pack of cards to play with to keep them awake till Mr. Sponge arrived, went to bed, too, and the house was presently tranquil.

It, however, happened that that amazing prodigy, Gustavus James, having been out on a sort of eleemosynary excursion among the neighbouring farmers and people, exhibiting as well his fine blue-feathered hat, as his astonishing proficiency in ‘Bah! bah! black sheep,’ and ‘Obin and Ichard,’ getting seed-cake from one, sponge cake from another, and toffy from a third, was troubled with a very bad stomach-ache during the night, of which he soon made the house sensible by his screams and his cries.  Jog and his wife were presently at him; and, as Jog sat in his white cotton nightcap and flowing flannel dressing-gown in an easy chair in the nursery, he heard the crack of the whip, and the prolonged yeea-yu-u-p of Mr. Sponge’s arrival.  Presently the trampling of a horse was heard passing round to the stable.  The clock then struck one.

[Illustration:  GUSTAVUS JAMES IN TROUBLE]

‘Pretty hour for a man to come home to a strange house!’ observed Mr. Jog, for the nurse, or Murry Ann, or Mrs. Jog, or any one that liked, to take up.