‘Here’s Mrs. Crow—­Crow—­Crowdey!’ gasped Jogglebury, convulsively, as a tall woman, in flare-up red and yellow stunner tartan, with a swarm of little children, similarly attired, suddenly appeared at an angle of the road, the lady handling a great alpaca umbrella-looking parasol in the stand-and-deliver style.

‘What’s kept you?’ exclaimed she, as the vehicle got within ear-shot.  ‘What’s kept you?’ repeated she, in a sharper key, holding her parasol across the road, but taking no notice of our friend Sponge, who, in truth, she took for Edgebone, the butcher.  ’Oh! you’ve been after your sticks, have you?’ added she, as her spouse drew the vehicle up alongside of her, and she caught the contents of the apron-straps.

‘My dear (puff)’ gasped her husband, ‘I’ve brought Mr. (wheeze) Sponge,’ said he, winking his right eye, and jerking his head over his left shoulder, looking very frightened all the time.  ’Mr. (puff) Sponge, Mrs. (gasp) Jogglebury (wheeze) Crowdey,’ continued he, motioning with his hand.

Finding himself in the presence of his handsome hostess, Sponge made her one of his best bows, and offered to resign his seat in the carriage to her.  This she declined, alleging that she had the children with her—­looking round on the grinning, gaping group, the majority of them with their mouths smeared with lollipops.  Crowdey, who was not so stupid as he looked, was nettled at Sponge’s attempting to fix his wife upon him at such a critical moment, and immediately retaliated with, ’P’raps (puff) you’d like to (puff) out and (wheeze) walk.’

There was no help for this, and Sponge having alighted, Mr. Crowdey said, half to Mr. Sponge and half to his fine wife, ’Then (puff—­wheeze) I’ll just (puff) on and get Mr. (wheeze) Sponge’s room ready.’  So saying, he gave the old nag a hearty jerk with the bit, and two or three longitudinal cuts with the knotty-pointed whip, and jingled away with a bevy of children shouting, hanging on, and dragging behind, amidst exclamations from Mrs. Crowdey, of ’O Anna Maria!  Juliana Jane!  O Frederick James, you naughty boy! you’ll spoil your new shoes!  Archibald John, you’ll be kilt! you’ll be run over to a certainty.  O Jogglebury, you inhuman man!’ continued she, running and brandishing her alpaca parasol, ’you’ll run over your children! you’ll run over your children!’

‘My (puff) dear,’ replied Jogglebury, looking coolly over his shoulder,’ how can they be (wheeze) run over behind?’

[Illustration]

So saying Jogglebury ground away at his leisure.

CHAPTER XLVI

PUDDINGPOTE BOWER, THE SEAT OF JOGGLEBURY CROWDEY, ESQ.

‘Your good husband,’ observed Mr. Sponge as he now overtook his hostess and proceeded with her towards the house, ’has insisted upon bringing me over to spend a few days till my friend Puffington recovers.  He’s just got the gout.  I said I was ’fraid it mightn’t be quite convenient to you, but Mr. Crowdey assured me you were in the habit of receivin’ fox-hunters at short notice; and so I have taken him at his word, you see, and come.’