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.'
Mrs. Jogglebury, who was still out of wind from her run after the carriage,
assured him that she was extremely happy to see him, though she couldn't
help thinking what a noodle Jog was to bring a stranger on a washing-day.
That, however, was a point she would reserve for Jog.
Just then a loud outburst from the children announced the approach of the
eighth wonder of the world, in the person of Gustavus James in the nurse's
arms, with a curly blue feather nodding over his nose. Mrs. Jogglebury's
black eyes brightened with delight as she ran forward to meet him; and in
her mind's eye she saw him inheriting a splendid mansion, with a retinue of
powdered footmen in pea-green liveries and broad gold-laced hats.
Great--prospectively great, at least--as had been her successes in the
sponsor line with her other children, she really thought, getting Mr.
Sponge for a god-papa for Gustavus James eclipsed all her other doings.
Mr. Sponge, having been liberal in his admiration of the other children, of
course could not refuse unbounded applause to the evident object of a
mother's regards; and, chucking the young gentleman under his double chin,
asked him how he was, and said something about something he had in his
'box,' alluding to a paper of cheap comfits he had bought at Sugarchalk's,
the confectioner's, sale in Oxford Street, and which he carried about for
contingencies like the present. This pleased Mrs. Crowdey--looking, as she
thought, as if he had come predetermined to do what she wanted. Amidst
praises and stories of the prodigy, they reached the house.
If a 'hall' means a house with an entrance-'hall,' Puddingpote Bower did
not aspire to be one. A visitor dived, _in medias res_, into the passage at
once. In it stood an oak-cased family clock, and a large glass-case, with
an alarming-looking, stuffed tiger-like cat, on an imitation marble slab.
Underneath the slab, indeed all about the passage, were scattered
children's hats and caps, hoops, tops, spades, and mutilated toys--spotted
horses without heads, soldiers without arms, windmills without sails, and
wheelbarrows without wheels. In a corner were a bunch of 'gibbeys' in the
rough, and alongside the weather-glass hung Jog's formidable flail of a
hunting-whip.
Mr. Sponge found his portmanteau standing bolt upright in the passage, with
the bag alongside of it, just as they had been chucked out of the phaeton
by Bartholomew Badger, who, having got orders to put the horse right, and
then to put himself right to wait at dinner, Mr. Jogglebury proceeded to
vociferate:
'Murry Ann!--Murry Ann!' in such a way that Mary Ann thought either that
the cat had got young Crowdey, or the house was on fire. 'Oh! Murry Ann!'
exclaimed Mr. Jogglebury, as she came darting into the passage from the
back settlements, up to the elbows in soap-suds; 'I want you to (puff)
upstairs with me, and help to get my (wheeze) gibbey-sticks out of the best
room; there's a (puff) gentleman coming to (wheeze) here.'
'Oh, indeed, sir,' replied Mary Ann, smiling, and dropping down her
sleeves--glad to find it was no worse.
They then proceeded upstairs together.
All the gibbey-sticks were bundled out, both the finished ones, that were
varnished and laid away carefully in the wardrobe, and those that were
undergoing surgical treatment, in the way of twistings, and bendings, and
tyings in the closets. As they routed them out of hole and corner,
Jogglebury kept up a sort of running recommendation to mercy, mingled with
an inquiry into the state of the household affairs.
'Now (puff), Murry Ann!' exclaimed he; 'take care you don't scratch that
(puff) Franky Burdett,' handing her a highly varnished oak stick, with the
head of Sir Francis for a handle; 'and how many (gasp) haddocks d'ye say
there are in the house?'
'Three, sir,' replied Mary Ann.
'Three!' repeated he, with an emphasis. 'I thought your (gasp) missus told
me there were but (puff) two; and, Murry Ann, you must put the new (puff)
quilt on the (gasp) bed, and (puff) just look under it (gasp) and you'll
find the (puff) old Truro rolled up in a dirty (puff) pocket hankercher;
and, Murry Ann, d'ye think the new (wheeze) purtaters came that I bought of
(puff) Billy Bloxom? If so, you'd better (puff) some for dinner, and get
the best (wheeze) decanters out; and, Murry Ann, there are two gibbeys on
the (puff) surbase at the back of the bed, which you may as well (puff)
away. Ah! here he is,' added Mr. Jogglebury, as Mr. Sponge's voice rose now
from the passage into the room above.
Things now looked pretty promising. Mr. Sponge's attentions to the children
generally, and to Gustavus James in particular, coupled with his
free-and-easy mode of introducing himself, made Mrs. Crowdey feel far more
at her ease with regard to entertaining him than she would have done if her
neighbour, Mr. Makepeace, or the Rev. Mr. Facey himself, had dropped in to
take 'pot luck,' as they called it. With either of these she would have
wished to appear as if their every-day form was more in accordance with
their company style, whereas Jog and she wanted to get something out of Mr.
Sponge, instead of electrifying him with their grandeur. That Gustavus
James was destined for greatness she had not the least doubt. She began to
think whether it might not be advisable to call him Gustavus James Sponge.
Jog, too, was comforted at hearing there were three haddocks, for though
hospitably inclined, he did not at all like the idea of being on short
commons himself. He had sufficient confidence in Mrs. Jogglebury's
management--especially as the guest was of her own seeking--to know that
she would make up a tolerable dinner.
[Illustration]
Nor was he out of his reckoning, for at half-past five Bartholomew
announced dinner, when in sailed Mrs. Crowdey fresh from the composition of
it and from the becoming revision of her own dress. Instead of the loose,
flowing, gipsified, stunner tartan of the morning, she was attired in a
close-fitting French grey silk, showing as well the fulness and whiteness
of her exquisite bust, as the beautiful formation of her arms. Her raven
hair was ably parted and flattened on either side of her well-shaped head.
Sponge felt proud of the honour of having such a fine creature on his arm,
and kicked about in his tights more than usual.
The dinner, though it might show symptoms of hurry, was yet plentiful and
good of its kind; and if Bartholomew had not been always getting in Murry
Ann's way, would have been well set on and served. Jog quaffed quantities
of foaming bottled porter during the progress of it, and threw himself
back in his chair at the end, as if thoroughly overcome with his exertions.
Scarcely were the wine and dessert set on, ere a violent outbreak in the
nursery caused Mrs. Crowdey to hurry away, leaving Mr. Sponge to enjoy the
company of her husband.
'You'll drink (puff) fox-hunting, I s'pose,' observed Jog after a pause,
helping himself to a bumper of port and passing the bottle to Sponge.
'With all my heart,' replied our hero, filling up.
'Fine (puff, wheeze) amusement,' observed Mr. Crowdey, with a yawn after
another pause, and beating the devil's tattoo upon the table to keep
himself awake.
'Very,' replied Mr. Sponge, wondering how such a thick-winded chap as Jog
managed to partake of it.
'Fine (puff, wheeze) appetizer,' observed Jogglebury, after another pause.
'It is,' replied Mr. Sponge.
Presently Jog began to snore, and as the increasing melody of his nose gave
little hopes of returning animation, Mr. Sponge had recourse to his old
friend _Mogg_ and amidst speculations as to time and distances, managed to
finish the port. We will now pass to the next morning.
Whatever deficiency there might be at dinner was amply atoned for at
breakfast, which was both good and abundant; bread and cake of all sorts,
eggs, muffins, toast, honey, jellies, and preserves without end. On the
side-table was a dish of hot kidneys and a magnificent red home-fed ham.
But a greater treat far, as Mrs. Jogglebury thought, was in the guests set
around. There were arranged all her tulips in succession, beginning with
that greatest of all wonders, Gustavus James, and running on with Anna
Maria, Frederick John, Juliana Jane, Margaret Henrietta, Sarah Amelia, down
to Peter William, the heir, who sat next his pa. These formed a close line
on the side of the table opposite the fire, that side being left for Mr.
Sponge. All the children had clean pinafores on, and their hairs plastered
according to nursery regulation. Mr. Sponge's appearance was a signal for
silence, and they all sat staring at him in mute astonishment. Baby,
Gustavus James, did more; for after reconnoitring him through a sort of
lattice window formed of his fingers, he whined out, 'Who's that ogl-e-y
man, ma?' amidst the titter of the rest of the line.
'Hush! my dear,' exclaimed Mrs. Crowdey, hoping Mr. Sponge hadn't heard.
But Gustavus James was not to be put down, and he renewed the charge as his
mamma began pouring out the tea.
'Send that ogl-e-y man away, ma!' whined he, in a louder tone, at which all
the children burst out a-laughing.
'Baby (puff), Gustavus! (wheeze),' exclaimed Jog, knocking with the handle
of his knife against the table, and frowning at the prodigy.
'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.
'Indeed,' said Mr. Sponge, 'they are fine trees'; thinking what a finish
they would make for a steeple-chase.
'My (puff) uncle, Crowdey, planted those (wheeze) trees,' observed Jog. 'I
observe,' added he, 'that it is easier to cut down a (puff) tree than to
make it (wheeze) again.' 'I believe you're right,' replied Mr. Sponge;
'that idea has struck me very often.'
'Has it?' replied Jog, puffing voluminously into his frill.
They then advanced a few paces, and, leaning on the iron hurdles, commenced
staring at the cows.
'Where are the stables?' at last asked Sponge, seeing no inclination to
move on the part of his host.
'Stables (wheeze)--stables (puff),' replied Jogglebury, recollecting
Sponge's previous day's proposal--'stables (wheeze) are behind,' said he,
'at the back there (puff); nothin' to see at them (wheeze).'
'There'll be the horse you drove yesterday; won't you go to see how he is?'
asked Mr. Sponge.
'Oh, sure to be well (puff); never nothing the matter with him (wheeze),'
replied Jogglebury.
'May as well see,' rejoined Mr. Sponge, turning up a narrow walk that
seemed to lead to the back.
Jog followed doggedly. He had a good deal of John Bull in him, and did not
fancy being taken possession of in that sort of way; and thought, moreover,
that Mr. Sponge had not behaved very well in the matter of the egg
controversy.
The stables certainly were nothing to boast of. They were in an old
rubble-stone, red-tiled building, without even the delicacy of a ceiling.
Nevertheless, there was plenty of room even after Jogglebury had cut off
one end for a cow-house.
'Why, you might hunt the country with all this stabling,' observed Mr.
Sponge, as he entered the low door. 'One, two, three, four, five, six,
seven, eight, nine. Nine stalls, I declare,' added he, after counting them.
'My (puff) uncle used to (wheeze) a good deal of his own (puff) land,'
replied Jogglebury.
'Ah, well, I'll tell you what: these stables will be much better for being
occupied,' observed Mr. Sponge. 'And I'll tell you what I'll do for you.'
'But they _are_ occupied!' gasped Jogglebury, convulsively.
'Only half,' replied Mr. Sponge; 'or a quarter, I may say--not even that,
indeed. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll have my horses over here, and you
shall find them in straw in return for the manure, and just charge me for
hay and corn at market price, you know. That'll make it all square and
fair, and no obligation, you know. I hate obligations,' added he, eyeing
Jog's disconcerted face.
'Oh, but (puff, wheeze, gasp)--' exclaimed Jogglebury, reddening up--'I
don't (puff) know that I can (gasp) that. I mean (puff) that this (wheeze)
stable is all the (gasp) 'commodation I have; and if we had (puff) company,
or (gasp) anything of that sort, I don't know where we should (wheeze)
their horses,' continued he. 'Besides, I don't (puff, wheeze) know about
the market price of (gasp) corn. My (wheeze) tenant, Tom Hayrick, at the
(puff) farm on the (wheeze) hill yonder, supplies me with the (puff)
quantity I (wheeze) want, and we just (puff, wheeze, gasp) settle once a
(puff) half-year, or so.'
'Ah, I see,' replied Mr. Sponge; 'you mean to say you wouldn't know how to
strike the average so as to say what I ought to pay.'
'Just so,' rejoined Mr. Jogglebury, jumping at the idea.
'Ah, well,' said Mr. Sponge, in a tone of indifference; 'it's no great
odds--it's no great odds--more the name of the thing than anything else;
one likes to be independent, you know--one likes to be independent; but as
I shan't be with you long, I'll just put up with it for once--I'll just put
up with it for once--and let you find me--and let you find me.' So saying,
he walked away, leaving Jogglebury petrified at his impudence.
'That husband of yours is a monstrous good fellow,' observed Mr. Sponge to
Mrs. Jogglebury, who he now met coming out with her tail: 'he _will_ insist
on my having my horses over here--most liberal, handsome thing of him, I'm
sure; and that reminds me, can you manage to put up my servant?'
'I dare say we can,' replied Mrs. Jogglebury thoughtfully. 'He's not a very
fine gentleman, is he?' asked she, knowing that servants were often more
difficult to please than their masters. 'Oh, not at all,' replied Sponge;
'not at all--wouldn't suit me if he was--wouldn't suit me if he was.'
Just then up waddled Jogglebury, puffing and wheezing like a stranded
grampus; the idea having just struck him that he might get off on the plea
of not having room for the servant.
'It's very unfortunate (wheeze)--that's to say, it never occurred to me
(puff), but I quite forgot (gasp) that we haven't (wheeze) room for your
(puff) servant.'
'Ah, you are a good fellow,' replied Mr. Sponge--'a devilish good fellow. I
was just telling Mrs. Jogglebury--wasn't I, Mrs. Jogglebury?--what an
excellent fellow you are, and how kind you'd been about the horses and
corn, and all that sort of thing, when it occurred to me that it mightn't
be convenient, p'raps to put up a servant; but your wife assures me that it
will; so that settles the matter, you know--that settles the matter and
I'll now send for the horses forthwith.'
Jog was utterly disconcerted, and didn't know which way to turn for an
excuse. Mrs. Jogglebury, though she would rather have been without the
establishment, did not like to peril Gustavus James's prospects by
appearing displeased; so she smilingly said she would see and do what they
could.
Mr. Sponge then procured a messenger to take a note to Hanby House, for Mr.
Leather, and having written it, amused himself for a time with his cigars
and his _Mogg_ in his bedroom, and then turned out to see the stable got
ready, and pick up any information about the hounds, or anything else, from
anybody he could lay hold of. As luck would have it, he fell in with a
groom travelling a horse to hunt with Sir Harry Scattercash's hounds,
which, he said, met at Snobston Green, some eight or nine miles off, the
next day, and whither Mr. Sponge decided on going.
Mr. Jogglebury's equanimity returning at dinner time, Mr. Sponge was
persuasive enough to induce him to accompany him, and it was finally
arranged that Leather should go on with the horses, and Jog should drive
Sponge to cover in the phe-_a_-ton.