‘Then, we’ll shoot turn and turn about,’ replied the pertinacious guest.

Jog did his best to dissuade him, observing that the birds were (puff) scarce and (wheeze) wild, and the (gasp) hares much troubled with poachers; but Mr. Sponge wanted a walk, and moreover had a fancy for seeing Jog handle his gun.

Having cut himself some extremely substantial sandwiches, and filled his ‘monkey’ full of sherry, our friend Jog slipped out the back way to loosen old Ponto, who acted the triple part of pointer, house-dog, and horse to Gustavus James.  He was a great fat, black-and-white brute, with a head like a hat-box, a tail like a clothes-peg, and a back as broad as a well-fed sheep’s.  The old brute was so frantic at the sight of his master in his green coat, and wide-awake to match, that he jumped and bounced, and barked, and rattled his chain, and set up such yells, that his noise sounded all over the house, and soon brought Mr. Sponge to the scene of action, where stood our friend, loading his gun and looking as consequential as possible.

‘I shall only just take a (puff) stroll over moy (wheeze) ter-ri-to-ry,’ observed Jog, as Mr. Sponge emerged at the back door.

[Illustration:  FRANTIC DELIGHT OF PONTO]

Jog’s pace was about two miles and a half an hour, stoppages included, and he thought it advisable to prepare Mr. Sponge for the trial.  He then shouldered his gun and waddled away, first over the stile into Farmer Stiffland’s stubble, round which Ponto ranged in the most riotous, independent way, regardless of Jog’s whistles and rates and the crack of his little knotty whip.  Jog then crossed the old pasture into Mr. Lowland’s turnips, into which Ponto dashed in the same energetic way, but these impediments to travelling soon told on his great buttermilk carcass, and brought him to a more subdued pace; still, the dog had a good deal more energy than his master.  Round he went, sniffing and hunting, then dashing right through the middle of the field, as if he was out on his own account alone, and had nothing whatever to do with a master.

‘Why, your dog’ll spring all the birds out of shot,’ observed Mr. Sponge; and, just as he spoke, whirr! rose a covey of partridges, eleven in number, quite at an impossible distance, but Jog blazed away all the same.

‘’Ord rot it, man! if you’d only held your (something) tongue,’ growled Jog, as he shaded the sun from his eyes to mark them down, ’I’d have (wheezed) half of them over.’

‘Nonsense, man!’ replied Mr. Sponge.  ‘They were a mile out of shot.’

‘I think I should know my (puff) gun better than (wheeze) you,’ replied Jog, bringing it down to load.

‘They’re down!’ exclaimed Mr. Sponge, who, having watched them till they began to skim in their flight, saw them stop, flap their wings, and drop among some straggling gorse on the hill before them.  ’Let’s break the covey; we shall bag them better singly.’