Mr. Sponge's Sporting Tour

by Robert Smith Surtees

'What for, my dear?' asked Jog, who was staring a stick, with a half-finished head of Lord Brougham for a handle, out of countenance.

'What for, Jog? Why, can't you guess?'

'No,' replied Jog doggedly.

'No!' ejaculated his spouse. 'Why, Jog, you certainly are the stupidest man in existence.'

'Not necessarily!' replied Jog, with a jerk of his head and a puff into his shirt-frill that set it all in a flutter.

'Not necessarily!' replied Mrs. Jogglebury, who was what they call a 'spirited woman,' in the same rising tone as before. 'Not necessarily! but I say necessarily—yes, necessarily. Do you hear me, Mr. Jogglebury?'

'I hear you,' replied Jogglebury scornfully, with another jerk, and another puff into the frill.

The two then sat silent for some minutes, Jogglebury still contemplating the progressing head of Lord Brougham, and recalling the eye and features that some five-and-twenty years before had nearly withered him in a breach of promise action, 'Smiler v. Jogglebury,'[3] that being our friend's name before his uncle Crowdey left him his property.