While this was going on, young hopeful was sitting cocked up in his high chair, evidently mortified at the want of attention.

Mrs. Crowdey saw how things were going, and turning from the cow question, endeavoured to re-engage him in his recitations.

‘Now, my angel!’ exclaimed she, again showing him the sugar; ’tell us about “Obin and Ichard."’

‘No—­not “Obin and Ichard,"’ pouted the child.

’Oh yes, my sweet, do, that’s a good child; the gentleman in the pretty coat, who gives baby the nice things, wants to hear it.’

‘Come, out with it, young man!’ exclaimed Mr. Sponge, now putting a large piece of cold beef into his mouth.

’Not a ‘ung man,’ muttered the child, bursting out a-crying, and extending his little fat arms to his mamma.

’No, my angel, not a ‘ung man yet,’ replied Mrs. Jogglebury, taking him out of the chair, and hugging him to her bosom.

‘He’ll be a man before his mother for all that,’ observed Mr. Sponge, nothing disconcerted by the noise.

Jog had now finished his breakfast, and having pocketed three buns and two pieces of toast, with a thick layer of cold ham between them, looked at his great warming-pan of a watch, and said to his guest, ’When you’re (wheeze), I’m (puff).’  So saying he got up, and gave his great legs one or two convulsive shakes, as if to see that they were on.

Mrs. Jogglebury looked reproachfully at him, as much as to say, ’How can you behave so?’

Mr. Sponge, as he eyed Jog’s ill-made, queerly put on garments, wished that he had not desired Leather to go to the meet.  It would have been better to have got the horses a little way off, and have shirked Jog, who did not look like a desirable introducer to a hunting field.

‘I’ll be with you directly,’ replied Mr. Sponge, gulping down the remains of his tea; adding, ‘I’ve just got to run upstairs and get a cigar.’  So saying, he jumped up and disappeared.

Murry Ann, not approving of Sponge’s smoking in his bedroom, had hid the cigar-case under the toilet cover, at the back of the glass, and it was some time before he found it.

Mrs. Jogglebury availed herself of the lapse of time, and his absence, to pacify her young Turk, and try to coax him into reciting the marvellous ‘Obin and Ichard.’

As Mr. Sponge came clanking downstairs with the cigar-case in his hand, she met him (accidentally, of course) at the bottom, with the boy in her arms, and exclaimed, ’O Mr. Sponge, here’s Gustavus James wants to tell you a little story.’

Mr. Sponge stopped—­inwardly hoping that it would not be a long one.

‘Now, my darling,’ said she, sticking the boy up straight to get him to begin.

‘Now, then!’ exclaimed Mr. Crowdey, in the true Jehu-like style, from the vehicle at the door, in which he had composed himself.

‘Coming, Jog! coming!’ replied Mrs. Crowdey, with a frown on her brow at the untimely interruption; then appealing again to the child, who was nestling in his mother’s bosom, as if disinclined to show off, she said, ‘Now, my darling, let the gentleman hear how nicely you’ll say it.’