‘Pace!’ exclaimed Mr. Sponge, ‘your own crawl, you should say.’

‘Indeed!’ growled Jog, with an angry snort.

They now got through a well-established cattle-gap into a very rushy, squashy, gorse-grown pasture, at the bottom of the rising ground on which Mr. Sponge had marked the birds.  Ponto, whose energetic exertions had been gradually relaxing, until he had settled down to a leisurely hunting-dog, suddenly stood transfixed, with the right foot up, and his gaze settled on a rushy tuft.

‘P-o-o-n-to!’ ejaculated Jog, expecting every minute to see him dash at it.  ‘P-o-o-n-to!’ repeated he, raising his hand.

Mr. Sponge stood on the tip-toe of expectation; Jog raised his wide-awake hat from his eyes and advanced cautiously with the engine of destruction cocked.  Up started a great hare; bang! went the gun, with the hare none the worse.  Bang! went the other barrel, which the hare acknowledged by two or three stotting bounds and an increase of pace.

‘Well missed!’ exclaimed Mr. Sponge.

Away went Ponto in pursuit.

‘P-o-o-n-to!’ shrieked Jog, stamping with rage.

‘I could have wiped your nose,’ exclaimed Mr. Sponge, covering the hare with a hedge-stake placed to his shoulder like a gun.

‘Could you?’ growled Jog; ‘’spose you wipe your own,’ added he, not understanding the meaning of the term.

Meanwhile, old Ponto went rolling away most energetically, the farther he went the farther he was left behind, till the hare having scuttled out of sight, he wheeled about and came leisurely back, as if he was doing all right.

Jog was very wroth, and vented his anger on the dog, which, he declared, had caused him to miss, vowing, as he rammed away at the charge, that he never missed such a shot before.  Mr. Sponge stood eyeing him with a look of incredulity, thinking that a man who could miss such a shot could miss anything.  They were now all ready for a fresh start, and Ponto, having pocketed his objurgation, dashed forward again up the rising ground over which the covey had dropped.

Jog’s thick wind was a serious impediment to the expeditious mounting of the hill, and the dog seemed aware of his infirmity, and to take pleasure in aggravating him.

‘P-o-o-n-to!’ gasped Jog, as he slipped, and scrambled, and toiled, sorely impeded by the encumbrance of his gun.

But P-o-o-n-to heeded him not.  He knew his master couldn’t catch him, and if he did, that he durstn’t flog him.

‘P-o-o-n-to!’ gasped Jog again, still louder, catching at a bush to prevent his slipping back.  ‘T-o-o-h-o-o!  P-o-o-n-to!’ wheezed he; but the dog just rolled his great stern, and bustled about more actively than ever.

‘Hang ye! but I’d cut you in two if I had you!’ exclaimed Mr. Sponge, eyeing his independent proceedings.

‘He’s not a bad (puff) dog,’ observed Jog, mopping the perspiration from his brow.