h thing,' snorted her husband into his frill. 'I
should hope,' continued he, speaking slowly and solemnly, 'that a (puff)
wise ministry will purchase the whole (puff) collection for a (wheeze)
grateful nation, when the (wheeze)' something 'is no more (wheeze).' The
concluding words being lost in the emotion of the speaker (as the reporters
say).

'Well, but will you go and call on Mr. Sponge, dear?' asked Mrs. Jogglebury
Crowdey, anxious as well to turn the subject as to make good her original
point.

'Well, my dear, I've no objection,' replied Joggle, wiping a tear from the
corner of his eye with his coat-cuff.

'That's a good soul!' exclaimed Mrs. Jogglebury soothingly. 'Go to-morrow,
like a nice, sensible man.'

'Very well,' replied her now complacent spouse.

'And ask him to come here,' continued she.

'I can't (puff) ask him to (puff) come, my dear (wheeze), until he
(puff--wheeze) returns my (puff) call.'

'Oh, fiddle,' replied his wife, 'you always say fox-hunters never stand
upon ceremony; why should you stand upon any with him?'

Mr. Jogglebury was posed, and sat silent.

CHAPTER XLV

THE DISCOMFITED DIPLOMATIST

Well, then, as we said before, when one door shuts another opens; and just
as Mr. Puffington's door was closing on poor Mr. Sponge, who should cast up
but our newly introduced friend, Mr. Jogglebury Crowdey. Mr. Sponge was
sitting in solitary state in the fine drawing-room, studying his old friend
_Mogg_, calculating what he could ride from Spur Street, Leicester Square,
by Short's Gardens, and across Waterloo Bridge, to the Elephant and Castle
for, when the grinding of a vehicle on the gravelled ring attracted his
attention. Looking out of the window, he saw a horse's head in a faded-red,
silk-fronted bridle, with the letters 'J.C.' on the winkers; not 'J.C.'
writhing in the elegant contortions of modern science, but 'J.C.' in the
good, plain, matter-of-fact characters we have depicted above.

'That'll be the doctor,' said Mr. Sponge to himself, as he resumed his
reading and calculations, amidst a peal of the door-bell, well calculated
to arouse the whole house. 'He's a good un to ring!' added he, looking up
and wondering when the last lingering tinkle would cease.

Before the fact was ascertained, there was a hurried tramp of feet past the
drawing-room door, and presently the entrance one opened and let in--a rush
of wind.

'Is Mr. Sponge at home?' demanded a slow, pompous-sp