Jogglebury proceeded to
vociferate:
'Murry Ann!--Murry Ann!' in such a way that Mary Ann thought either that
the cat had got young Crowdey, or the house was on fire. 'Oh! Murry Ann!'
exclaimed Mr. Jogglebury, as she came darting into the passage from the
back settlements, up to the elbows in soap-suds; 'I want you to (puff)
upstairs with me, and help to get my (wheeze) gibbey-sticks out of the best
room; there's a (puff) gentleman coming to (wheeze) here.'
'Oh, indeed, sir,' replied Mary Ann, smiling, and dropping down her
sleeves--glad to find it was no worse.
They then proceeded upstairs together.
All the gibbey-sticks were bundled out, both the finished ones, that were
varnished and laid away carefully in the wardrobe, and those that were
undergoing surgical treatment, in the way of twistings, and bendings, and
tyings in the closets. As they routed them out of hole and corner,
Jogglebury kept up a sort of running recommendation to mercy, mingled with
an inquiry into the state of the household affairs.
'Now (puff), Murry Ann!' exclaimed he; 'take care you don't scratch that
(puff) Franky Burdett,' handing her a highly varnished oak stick, with the
head of Sir Francis for a handle; 'and how many (gasp) haddocks d'ye say
there are in the house?'
'Three, sir,' replied Mary Ann.
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