Jog quaffed quantities of foaming bottled porter during the progress of it, and threw himself back in his chair at the end, as if thoroughly overcome with his exertions.
Scarcely were the wine and dessert set on, ere a violent outbreak in the nursery caused Mrs.Crowdey to hurry away, leaving Mr.Sponge to enjoy the company of her husband.
'You'll drink (puff) fox-hunting, I s'pose,' observed Jog after a pause, helping himself to a bumper of port and passing the bottle to Sponge.
'With all my heart,' replied our hero, filling up.
'Fine (puff, wheeze) amusement,' observed Mr.Crowdey, with a yawn after another pause, and beating the devil's tattoo upon the table to keep himself awake.
'Very,' replied Mr.Sponge, wondering how such a thick-winded chap as Jog managed to partake of it.
'Fine (puff, wheeze) appetizer,' observed Jogglebury, after another pause.
'It is,' replied Mr.Sponge.
Presently Jog began to snore, and as the increasing melody of his nose gave little hopes of returning animation, Mr.Sponge had recourse to his old friend _Mogg_ and amidst speculations as to time and distances, managed to finish the port.

We will now pass to the next morning.
Whatever deficiency there might be at dinner was amply atoned for at breakfast, which was both good and abundant; bread and cake of all sorts, eggs, muffins, toast, honey, jellies, and preserves without end.

On the side-table was a dish of hot kidneys and a magnificent red home-fed ham.
But a greater treat far, as Mrs.Jogglebury thought, was in the guests set around.

There were arranged all her tulips in succession, beginning with that greatest of all wonders, Gustavus James, and running on with Anna Maria, Frederick John, Juliana Jane, Margaret Henrietta, Sarah Amelia, down to Peter William, the heir, who sat next his pa.

These formed a close line on the side of the table opposite the fire, that side being left for Mr.
Sponge.