understand.

'You'd better eat them,' said she, looking again at the eggs.

'I've (puff) breakfasted, my (wheeze) dear,' replied Jog pompously, wiping
his mouth on his claret-coloured bandana.

'They'll be wasted if you don't,' replied Mrs. Jog.

'Well, but they'll be wasted if I eat them without (wheeze) wanting them,'
rejoined he.

'Nonsense, Jog, you always say that,' retorted his wife. 'Nonsense (puff),
nonsense (wheeze), I say they _will_.'

'I say they _won't_!' replied Mrs. Jog; 'now will they, Mr. Sponge?'
continued she, appealing to our friend.

'Why, no, not so much as if they went out,' replied our friend, thinking
Mrs. Jog was the one to side with.

'Then you'd better (puff, wheeze, gasp) eat them between you,' replied Jog,
getting up and strutting out of the room.

Presently he appeared in front of the house, crowned in a pea-green
wide-awake, with a half-finished gibbey in his hand; and as Mr. Sponge did
not want to offend him, and moreover wanted to get his horses billeted on
him, he presently made an excuse for joining him.

Although his horses were standing 'free gratis,' as he called it, at Mr.
Puffington's, and though he would have thought nothing of making Mr.
Leather come over with one each hunting morning, still he felt that if the
hounds were much on the other side of Puddingpote Bower, it would not be so
convenient as having them there. Despite the egg controversy, he thought a
judicious application of soft sawder might accomplish what he wanted. At
all events, he would try.

Jog had brought himself short up, and was standing glowering with his hands
in his coat-pockets, as if he had never seen the place before.

'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, puffin