Prudence, however, suggested that Leather might have him up for
the assault. So he stood puffing and wheezing and eyeing the blear-eyed,
brandy-nosed old drunkard with, as he thought, a withering look of
contempt; and then, though the man was drunk and the night was dark, he
waddled off, leaving Mr. Leather on his once white breeches' knees. If Jog
had had reasonable time, say an hour or an hour and twenty minutes, to
improvise it in, he would have said something uncommonly sharp; as it was
he left him with the pertinent inquiry we have recorded--'What have you to
do with Robins, the mole-catcher?' We need hardly say that this little
incident did not at all ingratiate Mr. Sponge with his host, who re-entered
his house in a worse humour than ever. It was insulting a gentleman on his
own ter-ri-tory--bearding an Englishman in his own castle. 'Not to be borne
(puff),' said Jog.
It was now nearly five o'clock, Jog's dinner hour, and still no Mr. Sponge.
Mrs. Jog proposed waiting half an hour, indeed, she had told Susan, the
cook, to keep the dinner back a little, to give Mr.
Pages:
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758