‘They be gone to Hackberry Dean,’ said an old man, breaking stones by the roadside.

‘Hackberry Dean (puff)—­Hackberry Dean (wheeze)!’ replied Jog thoughtfully; ’then we must (puff) by Tollarton Mill, and through the (wheeze) village to Stewley?’ ‘Y-e-a-z,’ drawled the man.

Jog then drove on a few paces, and turned up a lane to the left, whose finger-post directed the road ‘to Tollarton.’  He seemed less disconcerted than Sponge, who kept inwardly anathematizing, not only ‘Obin and Ichard,’ but ’Diddle, diddle, doubt’—­’Bah, bah, black sheep’—­the whole tribe of nursery ballads, in short.

The fact was, Jog wanted to be into Hackberry Dean, which was full of fine, straight hollies, fit either for gibbeys or whip-sticks, and the hounds being there gave him the entree.  It was for helping himself there, without this excuse, that he had been ‘county-courted,’ and he did not care to renew his acquaintance with the judge.  He now whipped and jagged the old nag, as if intent on catching the hounds.  Mr. Sponge liberated his whip from the apron-straps, and lent a hand when Jog began to flag.  So they rattled and jingled away at an amended pace.  Still it seemed to Mr. Sponge as if they would never get there.  Having passed through Tollarton, and cleared the village of Stewley, Mr. Sponge strained his eyes in every direction where there was a bit of wood, in hopes of seeing something of the hounds.  Meanwhile Jog was shuffling his little axe from below the cushion of the driving-seat into the pocket of his great-coat.  All of a sudden he pulled up, as they were passing a bank of wood (Hackberry Dean), and handing the reins to his companion, said: 

‘Just lay hold for a minute whilst I (puff) out.’

‘What’s happened?’ asked Sponge.  ‘Not sick again, are you?’

’No (puff), not exactly (wheeze) sick, but I want to be out all the (puff) same.’

So saying, out he bundled, and, crushing through the fern-grown woodbiney fence, darted into the wood in a way that astonished our hero.  Presently the chop, chop, chop of the axe revealed the mystery.

‘By the powers, the fool’s at his sticks!’ exclaimed Sponge, disgusted at the contretemps.  ‘Mister Jogglebury!’ roared he, ’Mister Jogglebury, we shall never catch up the hounds at this rate!’

But Jog was deaf—­chop, chop, chop was all the answer Mr. Sponge got.

‘Well, hang me if ever I saw such a fellow!’ continued Sponge, thinking he would drive on if he only knew the way.

‘Chop, chop, chop,’ continued the axe.

‘Mister Jogglebury!  Mister Jogglebury Crowdey a-hooi!’ roared Sponge, at the top of his voice.

[Illustration:  MR. JOGGLEBURY CROWDEY ON HIS HOBBY]

The axe stopped.  ‘Anybody comin’?’ resounded from the wood.

‘You come,’ replied Mr. Sponge.

‘Presently,’ was the answer; and the chop, chop, chopping was resumed.