Now,
Mrs. Jogglebury Crowdey was a fine, bustling, managing woman, with a large
family, for whom she exerted all her energies to procure desirable
god-papas and mammas; and, no sooner did she hear of this newcomer, than
she longed to appropriate him for god-papa to their youngest son.
'Jog, my dear,' said she, to her spouse, as they sat at tea; 'it would be
well to look after him.'
'What for, my dear?' asked Jog, who was staring a stick, with a
half-finished head of Lord Brougham for a handle, out of countenance.
'What for, Jog? Why, can't you guess?'
'No,' replied Jog doggedly.
'No!' ejaculated his spouse. 'Why, Jog, you certainly are the stupidest man
in existence.'
'Not necessarily!' replied Jog, with a jerk of his head and a puff into his
shirt-frill that set it all in a flutter.
'Not necessarily!' replied Mrs. Jogglebury, who was what they call a
'spirited woman,' in the same rising tone as before. 'Not necessarily! but
I say necessarily--yes, necessarily. Do you hear me, Mr. Jogglebury?'
'I hear you,' replied Jogglebury scornfully, with another jerk, and another
puff into the frill.
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