'
'Will he?' said Mr. Sponge to himself, as, with throbbing head, he lay
tumbling about in bed, alleviating the recollections of the previous day's
debauch with an occasional dive into his old friend _Mogg_. Corporeally, he
was in bed at Puddingpote Bower, but mentally, he was at the door of the
Goose and Gridiron, in St. Paul's Churchyard, waiting for the three o'clock
bus, coming from the Bank to take him to Isleworth Gate.
Jog's bellow to 'Bartholo--_m--e--w_' interrupted the journey, just as in
imagination Mr. Sponge was putting his foot on the wheel and hallooing to
the driver to hand him the strap to help him on to the box.
'Will he?' said Mr. Sponge to himself, as he heard Jog's reiterated
assertion that he would be wheezing away that day. 'Wish you may get it,
old boy,' added he, tucking the now backless _Mogg_ under his pillow, and
turning over for a snooze.
When he got down, he found the party ranged at breakfast, minus the
interesting prodigy, Gustavus James, whom Sponge proceeded to inquire after
as soon as he had made his obeisance to his host and hostess, and
distributed a round of daubed comfits to the rest of the juvenile party.
Pages:
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769