mr. sponge's sporting tour. 277 



my (wheeze) Walter Scotts, my (puff) Lord Johns, d'ye think I'd 

 take it?" 



" I should hope so," replied Mrs. Jogglebury. 



" I should (puff) do no such thing," snorted her husband into his 

 frill. " I should hope," continued he, speaking slowly and solemnly, 

 " that a (puff) wise ministry will purchase the whole (puff) collection 

 for a (wheeze) grateful nation, when the (wheeze)" something " is no 

 more (wheeze)." The concluding words being lost in the emotion of 

 the speaker (as the reporters say). 



" Well, but will you go and call on Mr. Sponge, dear ? " asked 

 Mrs. Jogglebury Crowdey, anxious as well to turn the subject as to 

 make good her original point. 



"Well, my dear, I've no objection," replied Joggle, wiping a tear 

 from the corner of his eye with his coat-cuff. 



" That's a good soul ! " exclaimed Mrs. Jogglebury, soothingly. 

 " Go to-morrow, like a nice, sensible man." 



" Very well," replied her now complacent spouse. 



" And ask him to come here," continued she. 



" I can't (puff) ask him to (puff) come, my dear (wheeze), until 

 he (puff — wheeze) returns my (puff) call." 



" fiddle," replied his wife, " you always say fox-hunters never 

 stand upon ceremony; why should you stand upon any with him ? " 



Mr. Jogglebury was posed, and sat silent. 



CHAPTER XLV. 



THE DISCOMFITED DIPLOMATIST. 



Well then, as we said before, when one door shuts another opens ; 

 and just as Mr. Pumngton's door was closing on poor Mr. Sponge, 

 who should cast up but our newly-introduced friend, Mr. Jogglebury 

 Crowdey. Mr. Sponge was sitting in solitary state, in the fine draw- 

 ing-room, studying his old friend Mogg, calculating what he could 

 ride from Spur-street, Leicester-square, by Short's-gardens, and 

 across Waterloo-bridge, to the Elephant and Castle for, when the 

 grinding of a vehicle on the gravelled ring, attracted his attention. 

 Looking out of the window, he saw a horse's head in a faded-red 

 silk-fronted bridle, with the letters "J. C." on the winkers; not J. 

 C. writhing in the elegant contortions of modern science, but " J. 

 C." in the good, plain, matter-of-fact characters we have depicted 

 above. 



" That'll be the doctor," said Mr. Sponge to himself, as he re- 

 sumed his reading and calculations, amidst a peal of the door-bell, 

 well calculated to arouse the whole house. " He's a good un to 



