Jog boiled over with indignation. At first he thought of kicking Leather, a feat that his suppliant position made extremely convenient, if not tempting. Prudence, however, suggested that Leather might have him up for the assault. So he stood puffing and wheezing and eyeing the blear-eyed, brandy-nosed old drunkard with, as he thought, a withering look of contempt; and then, though the man was drunk and the night was dark, he waddled off, leaving Mr. Leather on his once white breeches' knees. If Jog had had reasonable time, say an hour or an hour and twenty minutes, to improvise it in, he would have said something uncommonly sharp; as it was he left him with the pertinent inquiry we have recorded—'What have you to do with Robins, the mole-catcher?' We need hardly say that this little incident did not at all ingratiate Mr. Sponge with his host, who re-entered his house in a worse humour than ever. It was insulting a gentleman on his own ter-ri-tory—bearding an Englishman in his own castle. 'Not to be borne (puff),' said Jog.
It was now nearly five o'clock, Jog's dinner hour, and still no Mr. Sponge. Mrs. Jog proposed waiting half an hour, indeed, she had told Susan, the cook, to keep the dinner back a little, to give Mr. Sponge a chance, who could not possibly change his tight hunting things for his evening tights in the short space of time that Jog could drop off his loose-flowing garments, wash his hands, and run the comb through his lank, candle-like hair.
Five o'clock struck, and Jog was just applying his hand to the fat red-and-black worsted bell-pull, when Mrs. Jog announced what she had done.
'Put off the dinner (wheeze)! put off the dinner (puff)!' repeated he, blowing furiously into his clean shirt-frill, which stuck up under his nose like a hand-saw; 'put off the dinner (wheeze)! put off the dinner (puff), I wish you wouldn't do such (wheeze) things without consulting (gasp) me.'
'Well, but, my dear, you couldn't possibly sit down without him,' observed Mrs. Jog mildly.
'Possibly! (puff), possibly! (wheeze),' repeated Jog. 'There's no possibly in the matter,' retorted he, blowing more furiously into the frill.
Mrs. Jog was silent.
'A man should conform to the (puff) hours of the (wheeze) house,' observed Jog, after a pause.
'Well, but, my dear, you know hunters are always allowed a little law,' observed Mrs. Jog.