him with their grandeur. That Gustavus
James was destined for greatness she had not the least doubt. She began to
think whether it might not be advisable to call him Gustavus James Sponge.
Jog, too, was comforted at hearing there were three haddocks, for though
hospitably inclined, he did not at all like the idea of being on short
commons himself. He had sufficient confidence in Mrs. Jogglebury's
management--especially as the guest was of her own seeking--to know that
she would make up a tolerable dinner.

[Illustration]

Nor was he out of his reckoning, for at half-past five Bartholomew
announced dinner, when in sailed Mrs. Crowdey fresh from the composition of
it and from the becoming revision of her own dress. Instead of the loose,
flowing, gipsified, stunner tartan of the morning, she was attired in a
close-fitting French grey silk, showing as well the fulness and whiteness
of her exquisite bust, as the beautiful formation of her arms. Her raven
hair was ably parted and flattened on either side of her well-shaped head.
Sponge felt proud of the honour of having such a fine creature on his arm,
and kicked about in his tights more than usual.

The dinner, though it might show symptoms of hurry, was yet plentiful and
good of its kind; and if Bartholomew had not been always getting in Murry
Ann's way, would have been well set on and served. Jog quaffed quantities
of foaming bottled porter during the progress of it, and threw himself
back in his chair at the end, as if thoroughly overcome with his exertions.
Scarcely were the wine and dessert set on, ere a violent outbreak in the
nursery caused Mrs. Crowdey to hurry away, leaving Mr. Sponge to enjoy the
company of her husband.

'You'll drink (puff) fox-hunting, I s'pose,' observed Jog after a pause,
helping himself to a bumper of port and passing the bottle to Sponge.

'With all my heart,' replied our hero, filling up.

'Fine (puff, wheeze) amusement,' observed Mr. Crowdey, with a yawn after
another pause, and beating the devil's tattoo upon the table to keep
himself awake.

'Very,' replied Mr. Sponge, wondering how such a thick-winded chap as Jog
managed to partake of it.

'Fine (puff, wheeze) appetizer,' observed Jogglebury, after another pause.

'It is,' replied Mr. Sponge.

Presently Jog began to snore, and as the increasing melody of his nose gave
little hopes of returning animation, Mr. Sponge had recourse to his old
friend _Mogg_ and amidst speculations