Sponge to come over to Nonsuch House, and
take his chance of a run with his hounds. He then sealed and posted the
letter without further to do.
CHAPTER LVIII
FACEY ROMFORD
[Illustration: MR. FACEY ROMFORD]
Four days had now elapsed since Mr. Sponge penned his overture to Sir
Harry, and each succeeding day satisfied him more of the utter
impossibility of holding on much longer in his then billet at Puddingpote
Bower. Not only was Jog coarse and incessant in his hints to him to be off,
but Jawleyford-like he had lowered the standard of entertainment so
greatly, that if it hadn't been that Mr. Sponge had his servant and horses
kept also, he might as well have been living at his own expense. The
company lights were all extinguished; great, strong-smelling,
cauliflower-headed moulds, that were always wanting snuffing, usurped the
place of Belmont wax; napkins were withdrawn; second-hand table-cloths
introduced; marsala did duty for sherry; and the stickjaw pudding assumed a
consistency that was almost incompatible with articulation.
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