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Updated: June 11, 2025
We need scarcely say that Jog was up betimes in the morning, most anxious to forward Mr. Sponge's departure. He offered to allow Bartholomew to convey him and his 'traps' in the phaeton an offer that Mr. Sponge availed himself of as far as his 'traps' were concerned, though he preferred cantering over on his piebald to trailing along in Jog's jingling chay. So matters were arranged, and Mr.
'I think I never saw such a mess as we've made this morning. And he looked at the stick in the apron, and the long holly between Jog's legs, and longed to lay them about his great back. 'I think so, snapped Sponge, adding, 'we've done it for once, at all events. The observation, however, was lost upon Jog, whose mind was occupied with thinking how to get the phaeton round without upsetting.
My 'ittle dame's not at 'ome So saddle my hog, and bridle my And bring my 'ittle dame, 'ome. A poem that in the original programme was intended to come in after 'Obin and Ichard, which was to be the chef-d'oeuvre. Mrs. Jog was delighted, and found herself pouring the tea into the sugar-basin instead of into Jog's cup. Mr. Sponge, too, applauded.
Spare ribs, liver and bacon, sausages, black puddings, &c. all very good in their way, but which came with a bad grace after the comforts of Jog's, the elegance of Puffington's, and the early splendour of Jawleyford's. Our hero was a good deal put out, and felt as if he was imposed upon.
Jog's pace was about two miles and a half an hour, stoppages included, and he thought it advisable to prepare Mr. Sponge for the trial. He then shouldered his gun and waddled away, first over the stile into Farmer Stiffland's stubble, round which Ponto ranged in the most riotous, independent way, regardless of Jog's whistles and rates and the crack of his little knotty whip.
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.
Sponge, nothing disconcerted by the noise. Mrs. Jogglebury looked reproachfully at him, as much as to say, 'How can you behave so? Mr. Sponge, as he eyed Jog's ill-made, queerly put on garments, wished that he had not desired Leather to go to the meet.
Jogglebury, the mortification of Sponge, and the growling denunciations of old Jog, who still kept his place in the vehicle. Mr. Sponge could not but stay the poem out. At last they got started, Jog driving. Sponge occupying the low seat, Jog's flail and Sponge's cane whip-stick stuck in the straps of the apron.
Sponge carelessly; adding, 'Sir Harry is rather too fast a man for me. 'Too fast for himself, I should think, observed Mrs. Jog. 'Have you known him long? asked Mrs. Jogglebury. 'Oh, we fox-hunters all know each other, replied Mr. Sponge evasively. 'Well, now that's what I tell Mr. Jogglebury, exclaimed she. 'Mr. Jog's so shy, that there's no getting him to do what he ought, added the lady.
Jog had said quite enough to make the caldron of Jog's jealousy boil over, and he sat staring into the fire, imagining all sorts of horrible devices in the coals and cinders, and conjuring up all sorts of evils, until he felt himself possessed of a hundred and twenty thousand devils.
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