However, as you've come, I'll talk to Mrs.
Jawleyford, and see if we can get off the Barkington 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 fire-irons 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 round
her waist, and giving her a hearty squeeze.
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