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Updated: May 8, 2025
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.
The fact was, Sponge meditated a bolt, and was in close confab with Leather, in the Rose and Crown stables, arranging matters, when the sound of his name in the yard caused him to look out, when oh, welcome sight! a Puddingpote Bower messenger put Sir Harry's note in his hand, which had at length arrived at Jog's through their very miscellaneous transit, called a post.
Sponge, staggering in the direction of the stable in which he put his horse. The house clock then struck ten. 'She's fast, observed Mr. Peastraw, fearing his guest might be wanting to stay all night. 'How far will Puddingpote Bower be from here? asked Mr. Sponge. 'Oh, no distance, sir, no distance, replied Mr. Peastraw, now leading out the horse. 'Can't miss your way, sir can't miss your way.
At length, after riding, and riding, and riding, more with a view of keeping himself awake than in the expectation of finding his way, just as he was preparing to arouse the inmates of a cottage by the roadside, a sudden gleam of moonlight fell upon the building, revealing the half-Swiss, half-Gothic lodge of Puddingpote Bower. We must now back the train a little, and have a look at Jog and Co.
The thought made him stick spurs into the chestnut, and hurry home to Puddingpote Bower, where he endeavoured to soothe his host by more than insinuating that he was going on a visit to Nonsuch House. Jog inwardly prayed that he might. It was just as Mr. Sponge predicted with regard to his admission to Nonsuch House.
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