’Take time (puff), replied Jog, snorting into his frill, and measuring out his powder most leisurely.  ‘Take time (wheeze),’ repeated he; ’they’re just on the bounds of moy ter-ri-to-ry.’

Jog had had many a game at romps with these birds, and knew their haunts and habits to a nicety.  The covey consisted of thirteen at first, but by repeated blazings into the ’brown of ’em,’ he had succeeded in knocking down two.  Jog was not one of your conceited shots, who never fired but when he was sure of killing; on the contrary, he always let drive far or near; and even if he shot a hare, which he sometimes did, with the first barrel, he always popped the second into her, to make sure.  The chairman’s shooting afforded amusement to the neighbourhood.  On one occasion a party of reapers, having watched him miss twelve shots in succession, gave him three cheers on coming to the thirteenth—­but to our day.  Jog had now got his gun reloaded with mischief, the cap put on, and all ready for a fresh start.  Ponto, meanwhile, had been ranging, Jog thinking it better to let him take the edge off his ardour than conform to the strict rules of lying down or coming to heel.  ‘Now, let’s on,’ cried Mr. Sponge, stepping out quickly.

‘Take time (puff), take time (wheeze),’ gasped Jog, waddling along; ’better let ’em settle a little (puff).  Better let ’em settle a little (gasp),’ added he, labouring on.

‘Oh no, keep them moving,’ replied Mr. Sponge, ’keep them moving.  Only get at ’em on the hill, and drive ’em into the fields below, and we shall have rare fun.’

‘But the (puff) fields below are not mine,’ gasped Jog.

‘Whose are they?’ asked Mr. Sponge.

‘Oh (puff), Mrs. Moses’s,’ gasped Jog.  ‘My stoopid old uncle,’ continued he, stopping, and laying hold of Mr. Sponge’s arm, as if to illustrate his position, but in reality to get breath, ’my stoopid old uncle (puff) missed buying that (wheeze) land when old Harry Griperton died.  I only wanted that to make moy (wheeze) ter-ri-to-ry extend all the (gasp) way up to Cockwhistle Park there,’ continued he, climbing on to a stile they now approached, and setting aside the top stone.  ’That’s Cockwhistle Park, up there—­just where you see the (puff) windmill—­then (puff) moy (wheeze) ter-ri-to-ry comes up to the (wheeze) fallow you see all yellow with runch; and if my old (puff) uncle (wheeze) Crowdey had had the sense of a (gasp) goose, he’d have (wheezed) that when it was sold.  Moy (puff) name was (wheeze) Jogglebury,’ added he, ‘before my (gasp) uncle died.’

‘Well, never mind about that,’ replied Mr. Sponge; ’let us go on after these birds.’

‘Oh, we’ll (puff) up to them presently,’ observed Jog, labouring away, with half a ton of clay at each foot, the sun having dispelled the frost where it struck, and made the land carry.

‘Presently!’ retorted Mr. Sponge.  ‘But you should make haste, man.’

‘Well, but let me go my own (puff) pace,’ snapped Jog, labouring away.