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.