'Well (puff), but you'd better have your (wheeze) horse round,' observed Jog, anxious to avoid any overture for a return.
'Thankee,' replied Mr. Sponge, making a parting bow; 'I'll get him at the stable.'
'I'll go with you,' said Jog, leading the way.
Leather had saddled, and bridled, and turned him round in the stall, with one of Mr. Jog's blanket-rugs on, which Mr. Sponge just swept over his tail into the manger, and led the horse out.
'Adieu!' said he, offering his hand to his host.
'Good-bye!—good (puff) sport to you,' said Jog, shaking it heartily.
Mr. Sponge then mounted his hack, and cocking out his toe, rode off at a canter.
At the same moment, Bartholomew drove away from the front door; and Jog, having stood watching the phaeton over the rise of Pennypound Hill, scraped his feet, re-entered his house, and rubbing them heartily on the mat as he closed the sash-door, observed aloud to himself, with a jerk of his head:
'Well, now, that's the most (puff) impittent feller I ever saw in my life! Catch me (gasp) godpapa-hunting again.'