Jog, who took the bulk
of her lading in at the children's dinner, sat trifling with the contents
of her plate, listening alternately for the sound of horses' hoofs outside,
and for nursery squalls in.
Dinner passed over, and the fruity port and sugary sherry soon usurped the
places that stick-jaw pudding and cheese had occupied.
'Mr. (puff) Sponge must be (wheeze), I think,' observed Jog, hauling his
great silver watch out, like a bucket, from his fob, on seeing that it only
wanted ten minutes to seven.
'Oh, Jog!' exclaimed Mrs. Jog, clasping her beautiful hands, and casting
her bright beady eyes up to the low ceiling.
'Oh, Jog! What's the matter now? (puff--wheeze--gasp),' exclaimed our
friend, reddening up, and fixing his stupid eyes intently on his wife.
'Oh, nothing,' replied Mrs. Jog, unclasping her hands, and bringing down
her eyes.
'Oh, nothin'!' retorted Jog. 'Nothin'!' repeated he. 'Ladies don't get
into such tantrums for nothin'.'
'Well, then, Jog, I was thinking if anything should have ha--ha--happened
Mr.
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