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Sponge recovered his equilibrium, the whip was in the case, the reins dangling about the old screw's heels, and Mr. Crowdey scrambling up a steep bank to where a very thick boundary-hedge shut out the view of the adjacent country. Presently, chop, chop, chop, was heard, from Mr. Crowdey's pocket axe, with a tug wheeze puff from himself; next a crash of separation; and then the purple-faced Mr.
Crowdey came bearing down the bank dragging a great blackthorn bush after him. 'What have you got there? inquired Mr. Sponge, with surprise. 'Got! Crowdey, pulling up short, and mopping his perspiring brow with a great claret-coloured bandana. 'Got! 'What are they? asked Mr. Sponge, astonished at his vehemence. 'Oh!
Jogglebury, who had sat listening in ecstasies, saw the offended eye and pouting lip of the boy, and attempted to make up with exclamations of 'That is a clever fellow! That is a wonder! at the same time showing him the sugar. 'Hush! Jog, hush! exclaimed Mrs. Crowdey, holding up her forefinger, and looking significantly first at him, and then at the urchin.
Jogglebury Crowdey did in Mr. Sponge's. In truth, Jogglebury was one of those unsportsmanlike beings, that a regular fox-hunter would think it waste of words to inquire about, and if Mr. Sponge saw him, he did not recollect him; while, on the other hand, Mr. Jogglebury Crowdey went home very full of our friend. Now, Mrs.
I'm blowed, if I were queen, but I'd melt all the great blubber-headed fellows like this 'ere Crowdey down, and make one sich man as Sir 'Arry out of the 'ole on 'em. Beer! they don't know wot beer is there! nothin' but the werry strongest hale, instead of the puzzon one gets at this awful mean place, that looks like nothin' but the weshin' o' brewers' haprons. Oh!
Crowdey said, half to Mr. Crowdey, of 'O Anna Maria! Juliana Jane! O Frederick James, you naughty boy! you'll spoil your new shoes! Archibald John, you'll be kilt! you'll be run over to a certainty. O Jogglebury, you inhuman man! continued she, running and brandishing her alpaca parasol, 'you'll run over your children! you'll run over your children!
'Oh yes, replied Sir Harry; 'Watchorn will manage all that. We'd better have a hunt soon, and then, Mr. Jogglebury Crowdey was to get rid of Mr. Sponge. 'No; Mr. Bugles won't go out any more, replied Lady Scattercash peremptorily. 'He was nearly killed last time'; her ladyship casting an angry glance at her husband, and a very loving one on the object of her solicitude.
Sponge's attentions to the children generally, and to Gustavus James in particular, coupled with his free-and-easy mode of introducing himself, made Mrs. Crowdey feel far more at her ease with regard to entertaining him than she would have done if her neighbour, Mr. Makepeace, or the Rev. Mr. Facey himself, had dropped in to take 'pot luck, as they called it.
Baby, Gustavus James, did more; for after reconnoitring him through a sort of lattice window formed of his fingers, he whined out, 'Who's that ogl-e-y man, ma? amidst the titter of the rest of the line. 'Hush! my dear, exclaimed Mrs. Crowdey, hoping Mr. Sponge hadn't heard. But Gustavus James was not to be put down, and he renewed the charge as his mamma began pouring out the tea.
Jogglebury Crowdey first attempted. They then commenced retracing their steps, rather a long trail, even for people in an amiable mood, but a terribly long one for disagreeing ones. Jog, to be sure, was pretty comfortable.
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