‘No, not “Obin and Ichard,"’ replied the child peevishly.

‘Yes, my darling, do, that’s a treasure.’

‘Well, my (puff) darling, give me some (wheeze) tea,’ interposed Jogglebury, knocking with his knuckles on the table.

‘Oh dear.  Jog, you and your tea!—­you’re always wanting tea,’ replied Mrs. Jogglebury snappishly.

’Well, but, my (puff) dear, you forget that Mr. (wheeze) Sponge and I have to be at (puff) Snobston Green at a (wheeze) quarter to eleven, and it’s good twelve (gasp) miles off.’

‘Well, but it’ll not take you long to get there,’ replied Mrs. Jogglebury; ‘will it, Mr. Sponge?’ continued she, again appealing to our friend.

‘Sure I don’t know,’ replied Sponge, eating away; ’Mr. Crowdey finds conveyance—­I only find company.’

Mrs. Jogglebury Crowdey then prepared to pour her husband out another cup of tea, and the musical snuff-box, being now left to itself, went off of its own accord with: 

    ’Diddle, diddle, doubt,
    My candle’s out. 
    My ’ittle dame’s not at ’ome—­
    So saddle my hog, and bridle my
    And bring my ’ittle dame, ‘ome.’

A poem that in the original programme was intended to come in after ’Obin and Ichard,’ which was to be the chef-d’oeuvre.

Mrs. Jog was delighted, and found herself pouring the tea into the sugar-basin instead of into Jog’s cup.

Mr. Sponge, too, applauded.  ‘Well, that was very clever,’ said he, filling his mouth with cold ham.

’"Saddle my dog, and bridle my hog”—­I’ll trouble you for another cup of tea,’ addressing Mrs. Crowdey.

‘No, not “saddle my dog,” sil-l-e-y man!’ drawled the child, making a pet lip:  ‘"saddle my hog."’

‘Oh! “saddle my hog,” was it?’ replied Mr. Sponge, with apparent surprise; ’I thought it was “saddle my dog.”  I’ll trouble you for the sugar, Mrs. Jogglebury’; adding, ’you have devilish good cream here; how many cows have you?’

‘Cows (puff), cows (wheeze)?’ replied Jogglebury; ‘how many cows?’ repeated he.

‘Oh, two,’ replied Mrs. Jogglebury tartly, vexed at the interruption.

‘Pardon me (puff),’ replied Jogglebury slowly and solemnly, with a full blow into his frill; ’pardon me, Mrs. (puff) Jogglebury (wheeze) Crowdey, but there are three (wheeze).’

‘Not in milk.  Jog—­not in milk,’ retorted Mrs. Crowdey.

‘Three cows, Mrs. (puff) Jogglebury (wheeze) Crowdey, notwithstanding,’ rejoined our host.

’Well; but when people talk of cream, and ask how many cows you have, they mean in milk, Mister Jogglebury Crowdey.’

‘Not necessarily.  Mistress Jogglebury Crowdey,’ replied the pertinacious Jog, with another heavy snort.  ’Ah, now you’re coming your fine poor-law guardian knowledge,’ rejoined his wife.  Jog was chairman of the Stir-it-stiff Union.