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.

Mr. Sponge then struck a light, and, getting his own cigar well under way,
lit one for his friend, and presented it to him. They then went puffing,
and whipping, and smoking in silence. Jog spoke first. 'I'm going to be
(puff) sick,' observed he, slowly and solemnly.

'Hope not,' replied Mr. Sponge, with a hearty whiff, up into the air.

'I _am_ going to be (puff) sick,' observed Jog, after another pause.

'Be sick on your own side, then,' replied Sponge, with another hearty
whiff.

'By the (puff) powers! I _am_ (puff) sick!' exclaimed Jogglebury, after
another pause, and throwing away the cigar. 'Oh, dear!' exclaimed he, 'you
shouldn't have given me that nasty (puff) thing.'

'My dear fellow, I didn't know it would make you sick,' replied Mr. Sponge.

'Well, but (puff) if they (wheeze) other people sick, in all (puff)
probability they'll (wheeze) me. There!' exclaimed he, pulling up again.

The delays occasioned by these catastrophes, together with the time lost by
'Obin and Ichard,' threw our sportsmen out considerably. When they reached
Chalkerley Gate it wanted ten minutes to eleven, and they had still three
miles to go.

'We shall be late,' observed Sponge inwardly denouncing 'Obin and Ichard.'

'Shouldn't wonder,' replied Jog, adding, with a puff into his frill,
'consequences of making me sick, you see.'

'My dear fel