Mr. Sponge's Sporting Tour Part 57

'Well, but, my (puff) dear, I (wheeze) you that they will be--indeed (puff), I may (wheeze) say that they (puff) are. It was only the other (puff) day that (wheeze) Patrick O'Fogo offered me five-and-twenty (wheeze) shillings for my (puff) blackthorn Daniel O'Connell, which is by no means so (puff) good as the (wheeze) wild-cherry one, or, indeed (puff), as the yew-tree one that I (wheeze) out of Spankerley Park.'

'I'd have taken it if I'd been you,' observed Mrs. Jogglebury.

'But he's (puff) worth far more,' retorted Jogglebury angrily; 'why (wheeze) Lumpleg offered me as much for Disraeli.'

'Well, I'd have taken it, too,' rejoined Mrs. Jogglebury.

'But I should have (wheeze) spoilt my (puff) set,' replied the gibbey-stick man. 'S'pose any (wheeze) body was to (puff) offer me five guineas a (puff) piece for the (puff) pick of my (puff) collection--my (puff) Wellingtons, my (wheeze) Napoleons, my (puff) Byrons, 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.'

'Oh, 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. Puffington'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 drawing-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 resumed his reading and calculations, amidst a peal of the door-bell, well calculated to arouse the whole house. 'He's a good un to ring!' added he, looking up and wondering when the last lingering tinkle would cease.

Before the fact was ascertained, there was a hurried tramp of feet past the drawing-room door, and presently the entrance one opened and let in--a rush of wind.

'Is Mr. Sponge at home?' demanded a slow, pompous-speaking, deep-toned voice, evidently from the vehicle.

'Yez-ur,' was the immediate answer.

'Who can that be?' exclaimed Sponge, pocketing his _Mogg_.

Then there was a creaking of springs and a jingling against iron steps, and presently a high-blowing, heavy-stepping body was heard crossing the entrance-hall, while an out-stripping footman announced Mr. Jogglebury Crowdey, leaving the owner to follow his name at his leisure.

Mrs. Jogglebury had insisted on Jog putting on his new black frock--a very long coat, fitting like a sack, with the well-filled pockets bagging behind, like a poor man's dinner wallet. In lieu of the shrunk and darned white moleskins, receding in apparent disgust from the dingy tops, he had got his nether man enveloped in a pair of fine cinnamon-coloured tweeds, with broad blue stripes down the sides, and shaped out over the clumsy foot.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MR. JOGGLEBURY INTRODUCING HIMSELF TO MR. SPONGE]

Puff, wheeze, puff, he now came waddling and labouring along, hat in hand, hurrying after the servant; puff, wheeze, puff, and he found himself in the room. 'Your servant, sir,' said he, sticking himself out behind, and addressing Mr. Sponge, making a ground sweep with his woolly hat.

'_Yours_,' said Mr. Sponge, with a similar bow.

'Fine day (puff--wheeze),' observed Mr. Jogglebury, blowing into his large frill.

'It is,' replied Mr. Sponge, adding, 'won't you be seated?'

'How's Puffington?' gasped our visitor, sousing himself upon one of the rosewood chairs in a way that threatened destruction to the slender fabric.

'Oh, he's pretty middling, _I_ should say,' replied Sponge, now making up his mind that he was addressing the doctor.

'Pretty middlin' (puff),' repeated Jogglebury, blowing into his frill; 'pretty middlin' (wheeze); I s'pose that means he's got a (puff) gumboil.

My third (wheeze) girl, Margaret Henrietta has one.'

'Do you want to see him?' asked Sponge, after a pause, which seemed to indicate that his friend's conversation had come to a period, or full stop.

'No,' replied Jogglebury unconcernedly. 'No; I'll leave a (puff) card for him (wheeze),' added he, fumbling in his wallet behind for his card-case.

'My (puff) object is to pay my (wheeze) respects to you,' observed he, drawing a great carved Indian case from his pocket, and pulling off the top with a noise like the drawing of a cork.

'Much obliged for the compliment,' observed Mr. Sponge, as Jogglebury fumbled and broke his nails in attempting to get a card out.

'Do you stay long in this part of the world?' asked he, as at last he succeeded, and commenced tapping the corners of the card on the table.

'I really don't know,' replied Mr. Sponge, as the particulars of his situation flashed across his mind. Could this pudding-headed man be a chap Puffington had got to come and sound him, thought he.

Jogglebury sat silent for a time, examining his feet attentively as if to see they were pairs, and scrutinizing the bags of his cinnamon-coloured trousers.

'I was going to say (hem--cough--hem),' at length observed he, looking up, 'that's to say, I was thinking (hem--wheeze--cough--hem), or rather I should say, Mrs. Jogglebury Crowdey sent me to say--I mean to say,'

continued he, stamping one of his ponderous feet against the floor as if to force out his words, 'Mrs. Jogglebury Crowdey and I would be glad--happy, that's to say (hem)--if you would arrange (hem) to (wheeze) pay us a visit (hem).'

'Most happy, I'm sure!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, jumping at the offer.

'Before you go (hem),' continued our visitor, taking up the sentence where Sponge had interrupted him; 'I (hem) live about nine miles (hem) from here (hem).'

'Are there any hounds in your neighbourhood?' asked Mr. Sponge.

'Oh yes,' replied Mr. Jogglebury slowly; 'Mr. Puffington here draws up to Greatacre Gorse within a few (puff--wheeze) miles--say, three (puff)--of my (wheeze) house; and Sir Harry Scattercash (puff) hunts all the (puff--wheeze) country below, right away down to the (puff--wheeze) sea.'

'Well, you're a devilish good fellow!' exclaimed Sponge; 'and I'll tell you what, as I'm sure you mean what you say, I'll take you at your word and go at once; and that'll give our friend here time to come round.'

'Oh, but (puff--wheeze--gasp),' started Mr. Jogglebury, the blood rushing to his great yellow, whiskerless cheeks, 'I'm not quite (gasp) sure that Mrs. (gasp) Jogglebury (puff) Crowdey would be (puff--wheeze--gasp) prepared.'