‘Well, pa, he is a ogl-e-y man,’ replied the child, amid the ill-suppressed laughter of the rest.

‘Ah, but what have I got!’ exclaimed Mr. Sponge, producing a gaudily done-up paper of comfits from his pocket, opening and distributing the unwholesome contents along the line, stopping the orator’s mouth first with a great, red-daubed, almond comfit.

Breakfast was then proceeded with without further difficulty.  As it drew to a close, and Mr. Sponge began nibbling at the sweets instead of continuing his attack on the solids, Mrs. Jogglebury began eyeing and telegraphing her husband.

‘Jog, my dear,’ said she, looking significantly at him, and then at the egg-stand, which still contained three eggs.

‘Well, my dear,’ replied Jog, with a vacant stare, pretending not to understand.

‘You’d better eat them,’ said she, looking again at the eggs.

‘I’ve (puff) breakfasted, my (wheeze) dear,’ replied Jog pompously, wiping his mouth on his claret-coloured bandana.

‘They’ll be wasted if you don’t,’ replied Mrs. Jog.

‘Well, but they’ll be wasted if I eat them without (wheeze) wanting them,’ rejoined he.

‘Nonsense, Jog, you always say that,’ retorted his wife.  ’Nonsense (puff), nonsense (wheeze), I say they will.’

‘I say they won’t!’ replied Mrs. Jog; ‘now will they, Mr. Sponge?’ continued she, appealing to our friend.

‘Why, no, not so much as if they went out,’ replied our friend, thinking Mrs. Jog was the one to side with.

‘Then you’d better (puff, wheeze, gasp) eat them between you,’ replied Jog, getting up and strutting out of the room.

Presently he appeared in front of the house, crowned in a pea-green wide-awake, with a half-finished gibbey in his hand; and as Mr. Sponge did not want to offend him, and moreover wanted to get his horses billeted on him, he presently made an excuse for joining him.

Although his horses were standing ‘free gratis,’ as he called it, at Mr. Puffington’s, and though he would have thought nothing of making Mr. Leather come over with one each hunting morning, still he felt that if the hounds were much on the other side of Puddingpote Bower, it would not be so convenient as having them there.  Despite the egg controversy, he thought a judicious application of soft sawder might accomplish what he wanted.  At all events, he would try.

Jog had brought himself short up, and was standing glowering with his hands in his coat-pockets, as if he had never seen the place before.

‘Pretty look-out you have here, Mr. Jogglebury,’ observed Mr. Sponge, joining him.

‘Very,’ replied Jog, still cogitating the egg question, and thinking he wouldn’t have so many boiled the next day.

‘All yours?’ asked Sponge, waving his hand as he spoke.

’My (puff) ter-ri-tory goes up to those (wheeze) firs in the grass-field on the hill,’ replied Jogglebury, pompously.