At last the ill-supported hobble died out into a walk, and Mr.Crowdey, complacently dropping his fat hand on his fat knees, seemed to resign himself to his fate.
So they crawled along the up-and-downy piece of road below Poplarton plantations, Mr.Jogglebury keeping a sharp eye upon the underwood for sticks.

After passing these, they commenced the gradual ascent of Roundington Hill, when a sudden sweep of the road brought them in view of the panorama of the rich Vale of Butterflower.
'There's a snug-looking box,' observed Sponge, as he at length espied a confused jumble of gable-ends and chimney-pots rising from amidst a clump of Scotch firs and other trees, looking less like a farmhouse than anything he had seen.
'That's my house (puff); that's Puddingpote Bower (wheeze),' replied Crowdey slowly and pompously, adding an 'e' to the syllable, to make it sound better, the haddocks, hashed mutton, and all the horrors of impromptu hospitality rushing upon his mind.
Things began to look worse the nearer he got home.

He didn't care to aggravate the old animal into a trot.

He again wondered whether Mrs.J.
would be pleased at the success of his mission, or angry at the unexpected coming.
'Where are the stables ?' asked Sponge, as he scanned the in-and-out irregularities of the building.
'Stables (wheeze), stables (puff),' repeated Crowdey--thinking of his troubles--of its being washing-day, and Mary Ann, or Murry Ann, as he called her, the under-butler, being engaged; of Bartholomew Badger having the horse and fe-_a_-ton to clean, &c.--'stables,' repeated he for the third time; 'stables are at the back, behind, in fact; you'll see a (puff) vane--a (wheeze) fox, on the top.' 'Ah, indeed!' replied Mr.Sponge, brightening up, thinking there would be old hay and corn.
They now came to a half-Swiss, half-Gothic little cottage of a lodge, and the old horse turned instinctively into the open white gate with pea-green bands.
'Here's Mrs.Crow--Crow--Crowdey!' gasped Jogglebury, convulsively, as a tall woman, in flare-up red and yellow stunner tartan, with a swarm of little children, similarly attired, suddenly appeared at an angle of the road, the lady handling a great alpaca umbrella-looking parasol in the stand-and-deliver style.
'What's kept you ?' exclaimed she, as the vehicle got within ear-shot.
'What's kept you ?' repeated she, in a sharper key, holding her parasol across the road, but taking no notice of our friend Sponge, who, in truth, she took for Edgebone, the butcher.

'Oh! you've been after your sticks, have you ?' added she, as her spouse drew the vehicle up alongside of her, and she caught the contents of the apron-straps.
'My dear (puff)' gasped her husband, 'I've brought Mr.( wheeze) Sponge,' said he, winking his right eye, and jerking his head over his left shoulder, looking very frightened all the time.