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Sponge then wanted to narrate the adventures of the day; but, independently
of Jawleyford's natural indifference for hunting, he was too much out of
humour at being done out of his wine to lend a willing ear; and after
sundry 'hums,' 'indeeds,' 'sos,' &c., Sponge thought he might as well think
the run over to himself as trouble to put it into words, whereupon a long
silence ensued, interrupted only by the tinkling of Jawleyford's spoon
against his glass, and the bumps of the decanter as Sponge helped himself
to his wine.
At length Jawleyford, having had as much negus as he wanted, excused
himself from further attendence, under the plea of increasing illness, and
retired to his study to concoct his letter to Jack.
At first he was puzzled how to address him. If he had been Jack Spraggon,
living in old Mother Nipcheese's lodgings at Starfield, as he was when Lord
Scamperdale took him by the hand, he would have addressed him as 'Dear
Sir,' or perhaps in the third person, 'Mr. Jawleyford presents his
compliments to Mr.


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