196 mr. sponge's sporting tour. 



I'll talk to Mrs. Jawleyford, and see if we can get off the Barking- 

 ton expedition." 



" But don't get off on my account," replied Sponge. " I can 

 stay here quite well. I dare say you'll not be away long." 



This was worse still ; it held out no hope of getting rid of him. 

 Jawleyford therefore resolved to try and smoke and starve him out. 

 When our friend went to dress he found his old apartment, the state- 

 room, put away, the heavy brocade curtains brown-hollanded, the 

 jugs turned upside down, the bed stripped of its clothes, and the 

 looking-glass laid a-top of it. 



The smirking housemaid, who was just rolling the fireirons up in 

 the hearth-rug, greeted him with a " Please, sir, we've shifted you 

 into the brown room, east," leading the way to the condemned cell 

 that "Jack" had occupied, where a newly-lit fire was puffing out 

 dense clouds of brown smoke, obscuring even the gilt letters on the 

 back of " Mogg's Cab Fares," as the little volume lay on the toilet- 

 table. 



" What's happened now ? " asked our friend of the maid, putting 

 his arm around her waist, and giving her a hearty squeeze. " What's 

 happened now, that you've put me into this dog-hole ? " asked he. 



"Oh! I don't know," replied she, laughing; "I s'pose they're 

 afraid you'll bring the old rotten curtains down in the other room 

 with smokin'. Master's a sad old wife," added she. 



A great change had come over everything. The fare, the lights, 

 the footmen, the everything, underwent grievous diminution. The 

 lamps were extinguished : and the transparent wax gave way to Pal- 

 mer's composites, under the influence of whose unsearching light the 

 young ladies sported their dashed dresses with impunity. Competi- 

 tion between them, indeed, was about an end. Amelia claimed Mr. 

 Sponge, should he be worth having, and should the Scamperdale 

 scheme fail ; while Eniity, having her mamma's assurance that he 

 would not do for either of them, resigned herself complacently to 

 what she could not help. 



Mr. Sponge, on his part, saw that all things portended a close. 

 He cared nothing about the old willow-pattern set usurping the 

 place of the Jawleyford-armed china ; but the contents of the dishes 

 were bad, and the wine, if possible, worse. Most palpable Marsala 

 did duty for sherry, and the corked port was again in requisition. 

 Jawleyford was no longer the brisk, cheery-hearted Jawleyford of 

 Laverick Wells, but a crusty, fidgetty, fire-stirring sort of fellow, 

 desperately given to his Morning Post. 



Worst of all, when Mr. Sponge retired to his den to smoke a 

 cigar and study his dear cab fares, he was so suffocated with smoke 

 that he was obliged to put out the fire, notwithstanding the weather 

 was cold, indeed inclining to frost. He lit his cigar notwithstanding ; 

 and, as he indulged in it, he ran all the circumstances of his situation 



