CHAPTER XIX.
THE WET DAY When the dirty slip-shod housemaid came in the morning with her blacksmith's-looking tool-box to light Mr.Sponge's fire, a riotous winter's day was in the full swing of its gloomy, deluging power.

The wind howled, and roared, and whistled, and shrieked, playing a sort of aeolian harp amongst the towers, pinnacles, and irregular castleisations of the house; while the old casements rattled and shook, as though some one were trying to knock them in.
'Hang the day!' muttered Sponge from beneath the bedclothes.

'What the deuce is a man to do with himself on such a day as this, in the country ?' thinking how much better he would be flattening his nose against the coffee-room window of the Bantam, or strolling through the horse-dealers' stables in Piccadilly or Oxford Street.
Presently the over-night chair before the fire, with the picture of Jawleyford in the Bumperkin yeomanry, as seen through the parted curtains of the spacious bed, recalled his over-night speculations, and he began to think that perhaps he was just as well where he was.

He then 'backed' his ideas to where he had left off, and again began speculating on the chances of his position.

'Deuced fine girls,' said he, 'both of 'em: wonder what he'll give 'em down ?'--recurring to his over-night speculations, and hitting upon the point at which he had burnt his lips with the end of the cigar--namely, Jawleyford's youth, and the possibility of his marrying again if Mrs.Jawleyford were to die.