Bartholomew did not answer.
'Murry Ann!' exclaimed Jog, after a pause. '_Murry Ann!_' repeated he,
still louder. 'MURRAY ANN!' roared he, at the top of his voice.
'Comin', sir! comin'!' exclaimed Mary Ann, peeping down upon him from the
garret-window.
'Oh, Murry Ann,' cried Mr. Jog, looking up, and catching the ends of her
blue ribbons streaming past the window-frame, as she changed her nightcap
for a day one, 'oh, Murry Ann, you'd better be (puff)in' forrard with the
(gasp) breakfast; Mr. Sponge'll most likely be (wheeze)in' away to-day.'
'Yes, sir,' replied Mary Ann, adjusting the cap becomingly.
'Confounded, puffing, wheezing, gasping, broken-winded old blockhead it
is!' growled Mr. Sponge, wishing he could get to his former earth at
Puffington's, or anywhere else. When he got down he found Jog in a very
roomy, bright, green-plush shooting-jacket, with pockets innumerable, and a
whistle suspended to a button-hole. His nether man was encased in a pair of
most dilapidated white moleskins, that had been degraded from hunting into
shooting ones, and whose cracks and darns showed the perils to which their
wearer had been exposed.
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