'Ought (puff)--ought (wheeze),' retorted Jog, puffing furiously into his capacious shirt-frill. 'It's one (puff) thing to know (puff) people out with the (wheeze) hounds, and another to go calling upon them at their (gasp) houses.' 'Well, but, my dear, that's the way people make acquaintance,' replied his wife. 'Isn't it, Mr. Sponge?' continued she, appealing to our friend. 'Oh, certainly,' replied Mr. Sponge, 'certainly; all men are equal out hunting.' 'So I say,' exclaimed Mrs. Jogglebury; 'and yet I can't get Jog to call on Sir George Stiff, though he meets him frequently out hunting.' 'Well, but then I can't (puff) upon him out hunting (wheeze), and then we're not all equal (gasp) when we go home.' So saying, our friend rose from his chair, and after giving each leg its usual shake, and banging his pockets behind to feel that he had his keys safe, he strutted consequentially up to the window to see how the day looked. Mr. Sponge, not being desirous of continuing the 'calling' controversy, especially as it might lead to inquiries relative to his acquaintance with Sir Harry, finished the contents of his plate quickly, drank up his tea, and was presently alongside of his host, asking him whether he 'was good for a ride, a walk, or what?' 'A (puff) ride, a (wheeze) walk, or a (gasp) what?' repeated Jog thoughtfully. 'No, I (puff) think I'll stay at (puff) home,' thinking that would be the safest plan. ''Ord, hang it, you'll never lie at earth such a day as this!' exclaimed Sponge, looking out on the bright, sunny landscape. 'Got a great deal to do,' retorted Jog, who, like all thoroughly idle men, was always dreadfully busy. He then dived into a bundle of rough sticks, and proceeded to select one to fashion into the head of Mr. Hume. Sponge, being unable to make anything of him, was obliged to exhaust the day in the stable, and in sauntering about the country. It was clear Jog was determined to be rid of him, and he was sadly puzzled what to do. Dinner found his host in no better humour, and after a sort of Quakers' meeting of an evening, they parted heartily sick of each other. CHAPTER LV THE TRIGGER Jog slept badly again, and arose next morning full of projects for getting rid of his impudent, unceremonious, free-and-easy guest. Having tried both an up and a downstairs shout, he now went out and planted himself immediately under Mr. Sponge's bedroom window, and, clearing his voice, commenced his usual vociferations. 'Bartholo--_m--e--w_!' whined he. '_Bartholo--m--e--w_!' repeated he, somewhat louder. 'BAR--THOLO--_m--e--w_!' roared he, in a voice of thunder. Bartholomew did not answer. 'Murry Ann!' exclaimed Jog, after a pause. '_Murry Ann!_' repeated he, still louder. 'MURRAY ANN!' roared he, at the top of his voice. 'Comin', sir! comin'!' exclaimed Mary Ann, peeping down upon him from the garret-window.