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At
all events, he would try.
Jog had brought himself short up, and was standing glowering with his hands
in his coat-pockets, as if he had never seen the place before.
'Pretty look-out you have here, Mr. Jogglebury,' observed Mr. Sponge,
joining him.
'Very,' replied Jog, still cogitating the egg question, and thinking he
wouldn't have so many boiled the next day.
'All yours?' asked Sponge, waving his hand as he spoke.
'My (puff) ter-ri-tory goes up to those (wheeze) firs in the grass-field on
the hill,' replied Jogglebury, pompously.
'Indeed,' said Mr. Sponge, 'they are fine trees'; thinking what a finish
they would make for a steeple-chase.
'My (puff) uncle, Crowdey, planted those (wheeze) trees,' observed Jog. 'I
observe,' added he, 'that it is easier to cut down a (puff) tree than to
make it (wheeze) again.' 'I believe you're right,' replied Mr. Sponge;
'that idea has struck me very often.'
'Has it?' replied Jog, puffing voluminously into his frill.
They then advanced a few paces, and, leaning on the iron hurdles, commenced
staring at the cows.


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