We need scarcely say that Jog was up betimes in the morning, most anxious
to forward Mr. Sponge's departure. He offered to allow Bartholomew to
convey him and his 'traps' in the phaeton--an offer that Mr. Sponge availed
himself of as far as his 'traps' were concerned, though he preferred
cantering over on his piebald to trailing along in Jog's jingling chay. So
matters were arranged, and Mr. Sponge forthwith proceeded to put his brown
boots, his substantial cords, his superfine tights, his cuttey scarlet, his
dress blue saxony, his clean linen, his heavy spurs, and though last, not
least in importance, his now backless _Mogg_, into his solid leather
portmanteau, sweeping the surplus of his wardrobe into a capacious
carpet-bag. While the guest was thus busy upstairs, the host wandered about
restlessly, now stirring up this person, now hurrying that, in the full
enjoyment of the much-coveted departure. His pleasure was, perhaps, rather
damped by a running commentary he overheard through the lattice-window of
the stable, from Leather, as he stripped his horses and tried to roll up
their clothing in a moderate compass.
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