'Well now, that is wonderful!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, hurrying on his dog-skin gloves, and wishing both Obin and Ichard farther.
'Isn't it!' exclaimed Mrs. Jogglebury, in ecstasies; then addressing the child, she said, 'Now that is a good boy—that is a fine fellow. Now couldn't he say it all over by himself, doesn't he think?' Mrs. Jogglebury looking at Sponge, as if she was meditating the richest possible treat for him.
'Oh,' replied Mr. Sponge, quite tired of the detention, 'he'll tell me it when I return—he'll tell me it when I return,' at the same time giving the child another parting chuck under the chin. But the child was not to be put off in that way, and instead of crouching, and nestling, and hiding its face, it looked up quite boldly, and after a little hesitation went through 'Obin and Ichard,' to the delight of Mrs. Jogglebury, the mortification of Sponge, and the growling denunciations of old Jog, who still kept his place in the vehicle. Mr. Sponge could not but stay the poem out.
At last they got started, Jog driving. Sponge occupying the low seat, Jog's flail and Sponge's cane whip-stick stuck in the straps of the apron. Jog was very crusty at first, and did little but whip and flog the old horse, and puff and growl about being late, keeping people waiting, over-driving the horse, and so on.
'Have a cigar?' at last asked Sponge, opening the well-filled case, and tendering that olive branch to his companion.
'Cigar (wheeze), cigar (puff)?' replied Jog, eyeing the case; 'why, no, p'raps not, I think (wheeze), thank'e.'
'Do you never smoke?' asked Sponge.
'(Puff—wheeze) Not often,' replied Jogglebury, looking about him with an air of indifference. He did not like to say no, because Springwheat smoked, though Mrs. Springey highly disapproved of it.
'You'll find them very mild,' observed Sponge, taking one out for himself, and again tendering the case to his friend.
'Mild (wheeze), mild (puff), are they?' said Jog, thinking he would try one.