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'Oh, Jog, I dare say you're very good and very industrious,' sobbed Mrs.
Jogglebury, 'but I sometimes (sob) think that you might apply your (sob)
energies to a better (sob) purpose.'
'Indeed, my dear (puff), I don't see that (wheeze),' replied Jogglebury,
mildly.
'Why, now, if you were to try and get this rich Mr. Sponge for a god-papa
for Gustavus James,' continued she, drying her eyes as she came to the
point, '_that_, I should say, would be worthy of you.'
'But, my (puff) dear,' replied Jogglebury, 'I don't know Mr. (wheeze)
Sponge, to begin with.'
'That's nothing,' replied Mrs. Jogglebury; 'he's a stranger, and you should
call upon him.'
Mr. Jogglebury sat silent, still staring at Lord Brougham, thinking how he
pitched into him, and how sick he was when the jury, without retiring from
the box, gave five hundred pounds damages against him.
'He's a fox-hunter, too,' continued his wife; 'and you ought to be civil to
him.'
'Well, but, my (puff) dear, he's as likely to (wheeze) these fifty years as
any (puff, wheeze) man I ever looked at,' replied Jogglebury.


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