Having tried the effects of an upstairs shout the morning before, he decided to see what a down one would do; accordingly, he mounted the stairs and climbed the sort of companion-ladder that led to the servants' attics, where he kept a stock of gibbeys in the rafters. Having reached this, he cleared his throat, laid his head over the banisters, and putting an open hand on each side of his mouth to direct the sound, exclaimed with a loud and audible voice: 'BARTHOLO--_m--e--w_!' 'BAR--THO--LO--_m--e--e--w_!' repeated he, after a pause, with a full separation of the syllables and a prolonged intonation of the _m--e--w_. No Bartholomew answered. 'MURRAY ANN!' then hallooed Jog, in a sharper, quicker key. 'MURRAY ANN!' repeated he, still louder, after a pause. 'Yes, sir! here, sir!' exclaimed that invaluable servant, tidying her pink-ribboned cap as she hurried into the passage below. Looking up, she caught sight of her master's great sallow chaps hanging like a flitch of bacon over the garret banister. 'Oh, Murry Ann,' bellowed Mr. Jog, at the top of his voice, still holding his hands to his mouth, as soon as he saw her, 'Oh, Murry Ann, you'd better get the (puff) breakfast ready; I think the (gasp) Mr. Sponge will be (wheezing) away to-day.' 'Yes, sir,' replied Mary Ann. 'And tell Bartholomew to get his washin' bills in.' 'He harn't had no washin' done,' replied Mary Ann, raising her voice to correspond with that of her master. 'Then his bill for postage,' replied Mr. Jog, in the same tone. 'He harn't had no letters neither,' replied Mary Ann. 'Oh, then, just get the breakfast ready,' rejoined Jog, adding, 'he'll be (wheezing) away as soon as he gets it, I (puff) expect.' '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.