‘And what did you make of Sir Harry?’ asked Mrs. Jog.

‘Did you (puff) say you were going to (wheeze) over to him?’ asked Jog eagerly.

‘I told him I’d go to him before I left the country,’ replied Mr. Sponge carelessly; adding, ‘Sir Harry is rather too fast a man for me.’

‘Too fast for himself, I should think,’ observed Mrs. Jog.

‘Fine (puff—­wheeze) young man,’ growled Jog into the bottom of his cup.

‘Have you known him long?’ asked Mrs. Jogglebury.

‘Oh, we fox-hunters all know each other,’ replied Mr. Sponge evasively.

‘Well, now that’s what I tell Mr. Jogglebury,’ exclaimed she.  ’Mr. Jog’s so shy, that there’s no getting him to do what he ought,’ added the lady.  ’No one, to hear him, would think he’s the great man he is.’

‘Ought (puff)—­ought (wheeze),’ retorted Jog, puffing furiously into his capacious shirt-frill.  ’It’s one (puff) thing to know (puff) people out with the (wheeze) hounds, and another to go calling upon them at their (gasp) houses.’  ’Well, but, my dear, that’s the way people make acquaintance,’ replied his wife.  ‘Isn’t it, Mr. Sponge?’ continued she, appealing to our friend.

‘Oh, certainly,’ replied Mr. Sponge, ’certainly; all men are equal out hunting.’

‘So I say,’ exclaimed Mrs. Jogglebury; ’and yet I can’t get Jog to call on Sir George Stiff, though he meets him frequently out hunting.’

’Well, but then I can’t (puff) upon him out hunting (wheeze), and then we’re not all equal (gasp) when we go home.’

So saying, our friend rose from his chair, and after giving each leg its usual shake, and banging his pockets behind to feel that he had his keys safe, he strutted consequentially up to the window to see how the day looked.

Mr. Sponge, not being desirous of continuing the ‘calling’ controversy, especially as it might lead to inquiries relative to his acquaintance with Sir Harry, finished the contents of his plate quickly, drank up his tea, and was presently alongside of his host, asking him whether he ’was good for a ride, a walk, or what?’

‘A (puff) ride, a (wheeze) walk, or a (gasp) what?’ repeated Jog thoughtfully.  ‘No, I (puff) think I’ll stay at (puff) home,’ thinking that would be the safest plan.

‘’Ord, hang it, you’ll never lie at earth such a day as this!’ exclaimed Sponge, looking out on the bright, sunny landscape.

‘Got a great deal to do,’ retorted Jog, who, like all thoroughly idle men, was always dreadfully busy.  He then dived into a bundle of rough sticks, and proceeded to select one to fashion into the head of Mr. Hume.  Sponge, being unable to make anything of him, was obliged to exhaust the day in the stable, and in sauntering about the country.  It was clear Jog was determined to be rid of him, and he was sadly puzzled what to do.  Dinner found his host in no better humour, and after a sort of Quakers’ meeting of an evening, they parted heartily sick of each other.