212 MR. sponge's sporting tour. 



to pour upon paper ; then splut — splut — splutter goes the pen, and 

 away goes the train of thought. Bold is the man who undertakes to 

 write his letters in his bed-room with country house pens. But, to 

 our friends. Jack and SpoDge slept next door to each other; Sponge, 

 as we have already said, occupying the state-room, with its canopy-top 

 bedstead, carved and panelled sides, and elegant chintz curtains lined 

 with pink, and massive silk-and-bullion tassels ; while Jack occupied 

 the dressing-room, which was the state bed-room in miniature, only a 

 good deal more comfortable. The rooms communicated with double 

 doors, and our friends very soon effected a passage. 



" Have you any 'baccy ? " asked Jack, waddling in in his slippers, 

 after having sucked off his tops without the aid of a boot-jack. 



" There's some in my jacket-pocket," replied Sponge, nodding to 

 where it hung in the wardrobe ; " but it won't do to smoke here, will 

 it?" asked he. 



" Why not ? " inquired Jack. 



" Such a fine room," replied Sponge, looking around. 



" Oh, fine be hanged ! " replied Jack; adding, as he made for the 

 jacket, "no place too fine for smokin' in." 



Having helped himself to one of the best cigars, and lighted it, 

 Jack composed himself cross-legged in an easy, spring, stuffed chair, 

 while Sponge fussed about among the writing implements, watering 

 and stirring up the clotted ink, and denouncing each pen in succes- 

 sion, as he gave it the initiatory trial in writing the word " Sponge." 



" Curse the pens ! " exclaimed he, throwing the last bright crisp 

 yellow thing from him in disgust. " There's not one among 'em 

 that can go ! — all reg'larly stumped up." 



" Haven't you a penknife ? " asked Jack, taking the cigar out of 

 his mouth. 



" Not I," replied Sponge. 



' : Take a razor, then," said Jack, who was good at an expedient. 



" I'll take one of yours," said Sponge, going into the dressing- 

 room for one. 



" Hang it, but you're rather too sharp," exclaimed Jack, with a 

 shake of his head. 



" It's more than your razor '11 be when I'm done with it," replied 

 Sponge. 



Having at length, with the aid of Jack's razor, succeeded in get- 

 ting a pen that would write, Mr. Sponge selected a sheet of best cream- 

 laid satin paper, and taking a cane-bottomed chair, placed himself at 

 the table in an attitude for writing. Dipping the fine yellow pen in 

 the ink, he looked in Jack's face for an idea. Jack, who had now 

 got well advanced in his cigar, sat squinting through his spectacles 

 at our scribe, though apparently looking at the top of the bed. 



" Well," said Sponge, with a look of inquiry. 



" Well," replied Jack, in a tone of indifference, 



