Mr. Sponge's Sporting Tour

  CHAPTER LIII

  PUDDINGPOTE BOWER

  We must now back the train a little, and have a look at Jog and Co.

  Mr. and Mrs. Jog had had another squabble after Mr. Sponge's departure inthe morning, Mr. Jog reproving Mrs. Jog for the interest she seemed to takein Mr. Sponge, as shown by her going to the door to see him amble away onthe piebald hack. Mrs. Jog justified herself on the score of GustavusJames, with whom she was quite sure Mr. Sponge was much struck, and towhom, she made no doubt, he would leave his ample fortune. Jog, on theother hand, wheezed and puffed into his frill, and reasserted that Mr.Sponge was as likely to live as Gustavus James, and to marry and to have abushel of children of his own; while Mrs. Jog rejoined that he was 'sure tobreak his neck'--breaking their necks being, as she conceived, theinevitable end of fox-hunters. Jog, who had not prosecuted the sport ofhunting long enough to be able to gainsay her assertion, though he tookespecial care to defer the operation of breaking his own neck as long as hecould, fell back upon the expense and inconvenience of keeping Mr. Spongeand his three horses, and his saucy servant, who had taught their domesticsto turn up their noses at his diet table; above all, at his stick-jaw andundeniable small-beer. So they went fighting and squabbling on, till atlast the scene ended, as usual, by Mrs. Jogglebury bursting into tears, anddeclaring that Jog didn't care a farthing either for her or her children.Jog then bundled off, to try and fashion a most incorrigible-looking,knotty blackthorn into a head of Lord Chancellor Lyndhurst. He afterwardstook a turn at a hazel that he thought would make a Joe Hume. Havingoccupied himself with these till the children's dinner-hour, he took awandering, snatching sort of meal, and then put on his paletot, with alittle hatchet in the pocket, and went off in search of the raw material inhis own and the neighbouring hedges.

  Evening came, and with it came Jog, laden, as usual, with an armful ofgibbeys, but the shades of night followed evening ere there was any tidingsof the sporting inmates of his house. At length, just as Jog was taking hislast stroll prior to going in for good, he espied a pair of vacillatingwhite breeches coming up the avenue with a clearly drunken man inside them.Jog stood straining his eyes watching their movements, wondering whetherthey would keep the saddle or come off--whenever the breeches seemedirrevocably gone, they invariably recovered themselves with a jerk or alurch--Jog now saw it was Leather on the piebald, and though he had nofancy for the man, he stood to let him come up, thinking to hear somethingof Sponge. Leather in due time saw the great looming outline of our friendand came staring and shaking his head, endeavouring to identify it. Hethought at first it was the Squire--next he thought it wasn't--then he wassure it wasn't.

  'Oh! it's you, old boy, is it?' at last exclaimed he, pulling up beside thelarge holly against which our friend had placed himself, 'It's you, oldboy, is it?' repeated he, extending his right hand and nearly overbalancinghimself, adding as he recovered his equilibrium, 'I thought it was the oldWoolpack at first,' nodding his head towards the house. 'Well,' splutteredhe, pulling up, and sitting, as he thought, quite straight in the saddle,'we've had the finest day's sport and the most equitable drink I've enjoyedfor many a long day. 'Ord bless us, what a gent that Sir 'Arry is! He's thesort of man that should have money. I'm blowed, if I were queen, but I'dmelt all the great blubber-headed fellows like this 'ere Crowdey down, andmake one sich man as Sir 'Arry out of the 'ole on 'em. Beer! they don'tknow wot beer is there! nothin' but the werry strongest hale, instead ofthe puzzon one gets at this awful mean place, that looks like nothin' butthe weshin' o' brewers' haprons. Oh! I 'umbly begs pardon,' exclaimed he,dropping from his horse on to his knees on discovering that he wasaddressing Mr. Crowdey--'I thought it was Robins, the mole-ketcher.'

  'Thought it was Robins, the mole-catcher,' growled Jog; 'what have you todo with (puff) Robins, the (wheeze) mole-catcher?'

  Jog boiled over with indignation. At first he thought of kicking Leather, afeat that his suppliant position made extremely convenient, if nottempting. Prudence, however, suggested that Leather might have him up forthe assault. So he stood puffing and wheezing and eyeing the blear-eyed,brandy-nosed old drunkard with, as he thought, a withering look ofcontempt; and then, though the man was drunk and the night was dark, hewaddled off, leaving Mr. Leather on his once white breeches' knees. If Joghad had reasonable time, say an hour or an hour and twenty minutes, toimprovise it in, he would have said something uncommonly sharp; as it washe left him with the pertinent inquiry we have recorded--'What have you todo with Robins, the mole-catcher?' We need hardly say that this littleincident did not at all ingratiate Mr. Sponge with his host, who re-enteredhis house in a worse humour than ever. It was insulting a gentleman on hisown 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, thecook, to keep the dinner back a little, to give Mr. Sponge a chance, whocould not possibly change his tight hunting things for his evening tightsin the short space of time that Jog could drop off his loose-flowinggarments, wash his hands, and run the comb through his lank, candle-likehair.

  Five o'clock struck, and Jog was just applying his hand to the fatred-and-black worsted bell-pull, when Mrs. Jog announced what she had done.

  'Put off the dinner (wheeze)! put off the dinner (puff)!' repeated he,blowing furiously into his clean shirt-frill, which stuck up under his noselike a hand-saw; 'put off the dinner (wheeze)! put off the dinner (puff), Iwish you wouldn't do such (wheeze) things without consulting (gasp) me.'

  'Well, but, my dear, you couldn't possibly sit down without him,' observedMrs. Jog mildly.

  'Possibly! (puff), possibly! (wheeze),' repeated Jog. 'There's no possiblyin the matter,' retorted he, blowing more furiously into the frill.

  Mrs. Jog was silent.

  'A man should conform to the (puff) hours of the (wheeze) house,' observedJog, after a pause.

  'Well, but, my dear, you know hunters are always allowed a little law,'observed Mrs. Jog.

  'Law! (puff), law! (wheeze),' retorted Jog. 'I never want any law,'thinking of Smiler _v._ Jogglebury.

  Half-past five o'clock came, and still no Sponge; and Mrs. Jog, thinking itwould be better to arrange to have something hot for him when he came, thanto do further battle with her husband, gave the bell the double ringindicative of 'bring dinner.'

  'Nay (puff), nay (wheeze); when you have (gasp)ed so long,' growled Jog,taking the other tack, 'you might as well have (wheez)ed a littlelonger'--snorting into his frill as he spoke.

  Mrs. Jogglebury said nothing, but slipped quietly out, as if after herkeys, to tell Susan to keep so-and-so in the meat-screen, and have a fewpotatoes ready to boil against Mr. Sponge arrived. She then sidled backquietly into the room. Jog and she presently proceeded to thatall-important meal. Jog blowing out the company candles on the side-tableas he passed.

  Jog munched away with a capital appetite; but Mrs. Jog, who took the bulkof her lading in at the children's dinner, sat trifling with the contentsof 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 theplaces that stick-jaw pudding and cheese had occupied.

  'Mr. (puff) Sponge must be (wheeze), I think,' observed Jog, hauling hisgreat silver watch out, like a bucket, from his fob, on seeing that it onlywanted ten minutes to seven.

  'Oh, Jog!' exclaimed Mrs. Jog, clasping her beautiful hands, and castingher bright beady eyes up to the low ceiling.

  'Oh, Jog! What's the matter now? (puff--wheeze--gasp),' exclaimed ourfriend, reddening up, and fixing his stupid eyes intently on his wife.

  'Oh, nothing,' replied Mrs. Jog, unclasping her hands, and bringing downher eyes.

  'Oh, nothin'!' retorted Jog. 'Nothin'!' repeated he. 'Ladies don't getinto such tantrums for nothin'.'

  'Well, then, Jog, I was thinking if anything should have ha--ha-
-happenedMr. Sponge, how Gustavus Ja--Ja--James will have lost his chance.' Andthereupon she dived for her lace-fringed pocket-handkerchief, and hurriedout of the room.

  But Mrs. Jog had said quite enough to make the caldron of Jog's jealousyboil over, and he sat staring into the fire, imagining all sorts ofhorrible devices in the coals and cinders, and conjuring up all sorts ofevils, until he felt himself possessed of a hundred and twenty thousanddevils.

  'I'll get shot of this chap at last,' said he, with a knowing jerk of hishead and a puff into his frill, as he drew his thick legs under his chair,and made a semi-circle to get at the bottle. 'I'll get shot of this chap,'repeated he, pouring himself out a bumper of the syrupy port, and eyeing itat the composite candle. He drained off the glass, and immediately filledanother. That, too, went down; then he took another, and another, andanother; and seeing the bottle get low, he thought he might as well finishit. He felt better after it. Not that he was a bit more reconciled to ourfriend Mr. Sponge, but he felt more equal to cope with him--he even felt asif he could fight him. There did not, however, seem to be much likelihoodof his having to perform that ceremony, for nine o'clock struck and no Mr.Sponge, and at half-past Mr. Crowdey stumped off to bed.

  Mrs. Crowdey, having given Bartholomew and Susan a dirty pack of cards toplay with to keep them awake till Mr. Sponge arrived, went to bed, too, andthe house was presently tranquil.

  It, however, happened that that amazing prodigy, Gustavus James, havingbeen out on a sort of eleemosynary excursion among the neighbouring farmersand people, exhibiting as well his fine blue-feathered hat, as hisastonishing proficiency in 'Bah! bah! black sheep,' and 'Obin and Ichard,'getting seed-cake from one, sponge cake from another, and toffy from athird, was troubled with a very bad stomach-ache during the night, ofwhich he soon made the house sensible by his screams and his cries. Jog andhis wife were presently at him; and, as Jog sat in his white cottonnightcap and flowing flannel dressing-gown in an easy chair in the nursery,he heard the crack of the whip, and the prolonged _yeea-yu-u-p_ of Mr.Sponge's arrival. Presently the trampling of a horse was heard passinground to the stable. The clock then struck one.

  GUSTAVUS JAMES IN TROUBLE]

  'Pretty hour for a man to come home to a strange house!' observed Mr. Jog,for the nurse, or Murry Ann, or Mrs. Jog, or any one that liked, to takeup.

  Mrs. Jog was busy with the rhubarb and magnesia, and the others saidnothing. After the lapse of a few minutes, the clank, clank, clank of Mr.Sponge's spurs was heard as he passed round to the front, and Mr. Jog stoleout on to the landing to hear how he would get in.

  Thump! thump! thump! went Mr. Sponge at the door; rap--tap--tap he went atit with his whip.

  'Comin', sir! comin'!' exclaimed Bartholomew from the inside.

  Presently the shooting of bolts, the withdrawal of bands, and the openingof doors, were heard.

  'Not gone to bed yet, old boy?' said Mr. Sponge, as he entered.

  'No, thir!' snuffled the boy, who had a bad cold, 'been thitten up foryou.'

  'Old puff-and-blow gone?' asked Mr. Sponge, depositing his hat and whip ona chair.

  The boy gave no answer.

  'Is old bellows-to-mend gone to bed?' asked Mr. Sponge in a louder voice.

  'The charman's gone,' replied the boy, who looked upon his master--thechairman of the Stir-it-stiff Union--as the impersonification of allearthly greatness.

  'Dash your impittance,' growled Jog, slinking back into the nursery; 'I'llpay you off! (puff),' added he, with a jerk of his white night-capped head,'I'll bellows-to-mend you! (wheeze).'