'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).'