of the Stir-it-stiff Union--as the impersonification of all
earthly greatness.

'Dash your impittance,' growled Jog, slinking back into the nursery; 'I'll
pay you off! (puff),' added he, with a jerk of his white night-capped head,
'I'll bellows-to-mend you! (wheeze).'

CHAPTER LIV

FAMILY JARS

Gustavus James's internal qualms being at length appeased, Mr. Jogglebury
Crowdey returned to bed, but not to sleep--sleep there was none for him. He
was full of indignation and jealousy, and felt suspicious of the very
bolster itself. He had been insulted--grossly insulted. Three such
names--the 'Woolpack,' 'Old puff-and-blow,' and 'Bellows-to-mend'--no
gentleman, surely, ever was called before by a guest, in his own house.
Called, too, before his own servant. What veneration, what respect, could a
servant feel for a master whom he heard called 'Old bellows-to-mend'? It
damaged the respect inspired by the chairmanship of the Stir-it-stiff
Union, to say nothing of the trusteeship of the Sloppyhocks, Tolpuddle, and
other turnpike-roads. It annihilated everything. So he fumed, and fretted,
and snorted, and snored. Worst of all, he had no one to whom he could
unburden his grievance. He could not make the partner of his bosom a
partner in his woes, because--and he bounced about so that he almost shot
the clothes off the bed, at the thoughts of the 'why.'

Thus he lay tumbling and tossing, and fuming and wheezing and puffing, now
vowing vengeance against Leather, who he recollected had called him the
'Woolpack,' and determining to have him turned off in the morning for his
impudence--now devising schemes for getting rid of Mr. Sponge and him
together. Oh, could he but see them off! could he but see the portmanteau
and carpet-bag again standing in the passage, he would gladly lend his
phaeton to carry them anywhere. He would drive it himself for the pleasure
of knowing and feeling he was clear of them. He wouldn't haggle about the
pikes; nay, he would even give Sponge a gibbey, any he liked--the pick of
the whole--Wellington, Napoleon Bonaparte, a crowned head even, though it
would damage the set. So he lay, rolling and restless, hearing every clock
strike; now trying to divert his thoughts, by making a rough calculation
what all his gibbeys put together were worth; now considering whether he
had forgotten to go for any he had marked in the course of his
peregrinations; now wishing he had laid one about old Leather, when h