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Updated: June 11, 2025
Crowdey assured me you were in the habit of receivin' fox-hunters at short notice; and so I have taken him at his word, you see, and come. Mrs. Jogglebury, who was still out of wind from her run after the carriage, assured him that she was extremely happy to see him, though she couldn't help thinking what a noodle Jog was to bring a stranger on a washing-day.
Crow Crow Crowdey! gasped Jogglebury, convulsively, as a tall woman, in flare-up red and yellow stunner tartan, with a swarm of little children, similarly attired, suddenly appeared at an angle of the road, the lady handling a great alpaca umbrella-looking parasol in the stand-and-deliver style. 'What's kept you? exclaimed she, as the vehicle got within ear-shot.
Crowdey was 'awful mean, at the same time pulling out a sample of bad ship oats, that he had got from a neighbouring ostler, to show the 'stuff' their 'osses' were a eatin' of. The fact was, Jog's beer was nothing like so strong as Mr. Puffington's; added to which, Mr. Crowdey carried the principles of the poor-law union into his own establishment, and dieted his servants upon certain rules.
Jogglebury Crowdey did not hunt from any of these motives, and it would puzzle a conjurer to make out why he hunted; indeed, the members of the different hunts he patronized for he was one of the run-about, non-subscribing sort were long in finding out.
This pleased Mrs. Crowdey looking, as she thought, as if he had come predetermined to do what she wanted. Amidst praises and stories of the prodigy, they reached the house. If a 'hall' means a house with an entrance-'hall, Puddingpote Bower did not aspire to be one. A visitor dived, in medias res, into the passage at once.
Sir Harry's fields were entirely composed of his own choice 'set, and a few farmers, and people whom he could abuse and do what he liked with. Mr. Jogglebury Crowdey, to be sure, had mentioned Sir Harry approvingly, when he went to Mr. Puffington's, to inveigle Mr. Sponge over to Puddingpote Bower; but what might suit Mr.
Sponge, here's Gustavus James wants to tell you a little story. Mr. Sponge stopped inwardly hoping that it would not be a long one. 'Now, my darling, said she, sticking the boy up straight to get him to begin. 'Now, then! exclaimed Mr. Crowdey, in the true Jehu-like style, from the vehicle at the door, in which he had composed himself. 'Coming, Jog! coming! replied Mrs.
Crowdey, with a frown on her brow at the untimely interruption; then appealing again to the child, who was nestling in his mother's bosom, as if disinclined to show off, she said, 'Now, my darling, let the gentleman hear how nicely you'll say it. The child still slunk. 'That's a fine fellow, out with it! said Mr. Sponge, taking up his hat to be off. 'Now, then! exclaimed his host again.
Sponge, too, conscious that he was late, was more eager for his breakfast than anxious to be astonished; so, what with repressing the demands of the youngster, watching that the others did not break loose, and getting Jog and Mr. Sponge what they wanted, Mrs. Crowdey had her hands full.
I 'umbly begs pardon, exclaimed he, dropping from his horse on to his knees on discovering that he was addressing Mr. Crowdey 'I thought it was Robins, the mole-ketcher. Jog boiled over with indignation. At first he thought of kicking Leather, a feat that his suppliant position made extremely convenient, if not tempting.
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