Thump! thump! thump! went Mr. Sponge at the door; rap—tap—tap he went at it with his whip.
'Comin', sir! comin'!' exclaimed Bartholomew from the inside.
Presently the shooting of bolts, the withdrawal of bands, and the opening of doors, were heard.
'Not gone to bed yet, old boy?' said Mr. Sponge, as he entered.
'No, thir!' snuffled the boy, who had a bad cold, 'been thitten up for you.'
'Old puff-and-blow gone?' asked Mr. Sponge, depositing his hat and whip on a chair.
The boy gave no answer.
'Is old bellows-to-mend gone to bed?' asked Mr. Sponge in a louder voice.
'The charman's gone,' replied the boy, who looked upon his master—the chairman of the Stir-it-stiff Union—as the impersonification of all earthly greatness.
'Dash your impittance,' growled Jog, slinking back into the nursery; 'I'll pay you off! (puff),' added he, with a jerk of his white night-capped head, 'I'll bellows-to-mend you! (wheeze).'