‘Don’t you see,’ asked Sponge tartly, ’there’s a road by the corn-stacks yonder?’ Pointing them out.

‘I see,’ replied Jogglebury, blowing freely into his shirt-frill.  ‘I see,’ repeated he, staring that way; ’but I think (puff) that’s a mere (wheeze) occupation road, leading to (gasp) nowhere.’

‘Never mind, let’s try!’ exclaimed Mr. Sponge, giving the rein a jerk, to get the horse into motion again; adding, ’it’s no use sitting here, you know, like a couple of fools, when the hounds are running.’

‘Couple of (puff)!’ growled Jog, not liking the appellation, and wishing to be home with the long holly.  ’I don’t see anything (wheeze) foolish in the (puff) business.’

‘There they are!’ exclaimed Mr. Sponge, who had kept his eye on the spot he last viewed them, and now saw the horsemen titt-up-ing across a grass field in the easy way that distance makes very uneasy riding look.  ‘Cut along!’ exclaimed he, laying into the horse’s hind-quarters with his hunting-whip.

‘Don’t! the horse is (puff) tired,’ retorted Jog angrily, holding the horse, instead of letting him go to Sponge’s salute.

‘Not a bit on’t!’ exclaimed Sponge; ’fresh as paint!  Spring him a bit, that’s a good fellow!’ added he.

Jog didn’t fancy being dictated to in this way, and just crawled along at his own pace, some six miles an hour, his dull phlegmatic face contrasting with the eager excitement of Mr. Sponge’s countenance.  If it had not been that Jog wanted to see that Leather did not play any tricks with his horse, he would not have gone a yard to please Mr. Sponge.  Jog might, however, have been easy on that score, for Leather had just buckled the curb-rein of the horse’s bridle round a tree in the plantations where they found, and the animal, being used to this sort of work, had fallen-to quite contentedly upon the grass within reach.

Bilkington Pike now appeared in view, and Jog drew in as he spied it.  He knew the damage:  sixpence for carriages, and he doubted that Sponge would pay it.

‘It’s no use going any (wheeze) farther,’ observed he, drawing up into a walk, as he eyed the red-brick gable end of the toll-house, and the formidable white gate across the road.

Tom Coppers had heard the hounds, and, knowing the hurry sportsmen are often in, had taken the precaution to lock the gate.

‘Just a leetle farther!’ exclaimed Mr. Sponge soothingly, whose anxiety in looking after the hounds had prevented his seeing this formidable impediment.  ‘If you would just drive up to that farmhouse on the hill,’ pointing to one about half a mile off, ’I think we should be able to decide whether it’s worth going on or not.’

‘Well (puff), well (wheeze), well (gasp),’ pondered Jogglebury, still staring at the gate, ’if you (puff) think it’s worth (wheeze) while going through the (gasp) gate,’ nodding towards it as he spoke.

‘Oh, never mind the gate,’ replied Mr. Sponge, with an ostentatious dive into his breeches pocket, as if he was going to pay it.