'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.
Pages:
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634