'Cows (puff), cows (wheeze)?' replied Jogglebury; 'how many cows?' repeated he.
'Oh, two,' replied Mrs. Jogglebury tartly, vexed at the interruption.
'Pardon me (puff),' replied Jogglebury slowly and solemnly, with a full blow into his frill; 'pardon me, Mrs. (puff) Jogglebury (wheeze) Crowdey, but there are three (wheeze).'
'Not in milk. Jog—not in milk,' retorted Mrs. Crowdey.
'Three cows, Mrs. (puff) Jogglebury (wheeze) Crowdey, notwithstanding,' rejoined our host.
'Well; but when people talk of cream, and ask how many cows you have, they mean in milk, Mister Jogglebury Crowdey.'
'Not necessarily. Mistress Jogglebury Crowdey,' replied the pertinacious Jog, with another heavy snort. 'Ah, now you're coming your fine poor-law guardian knowledge,' rejoined his wife. Jog was chairman of the Stir-it-stiff Union.
While this was going on, young hopeful was sitting cocked up in his high chair, evidently mortified at the want of attention.
Mrs. Crowdey saw how things were going, and turning from the cow question, endeavoured to re-engage him in his recitations.
'Now, my angel!' exclaimed she, again showing him the sugar; 'tell us about "Obin and Ichard."'