Digital primer

Jogglebury, the mortification of
Sponge, and the growling denunciations of old Jog, who still kept his place
in the vehicle. Mr. Sponge could not but stay the poem out.
At last they got started, Jog driving. Sponge occupying the low seat, Jog's
flail and Sponge's cane whip-stick stuck in the straps of the apron. Jog
was very crusty at first, and did little but whip and flog the old horse,
and puff and growl about being late, keeping people waiting, over-driving
the horse, and so on.
'Have a cigar?' at last asked Sponge, opening the well-filled case, and
tendering that olive branch to his companion.
'Cigar (wheeze), cigar (puff)?' replied Jog, eyeing the case; 'why, no,
p'raps not, I think (wheeze), thank'e.'
'Do you never smoke?' asked Sponge.
'(Puff--wheeze) Not often,' replied Jogglebury, looking about him with an
air of indifference. He did not like to say no, because Springwheat smoked,
though Mrs. Springey highly disapproved of it.
'You'll find them very mild,' observed Sponge, taking one out for himself,
and again tendering the case to his friend.


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