’He’s not a good ‘un,’ retorted Mr. Sponge.

‘D’ye think not (wheeze)?’ asked Jog.

‘Sure of it,’ replied Sponge.

‘Serves me,’ growled Jog, labouring up the hill.

‘Easy served,’ replied Mr. Sponge, whistling, and eyeing the independent animal.

‘T-o-o-h-o-o!  P-o-o-n-t-o!’ gasped Jog, as he dashed forward on reaching level ground more eagerly than ever.

‘P-o-o-n-to!  T-o-o-h-o-o!’ repeated he, in a still louder tone, with the same success.

‘You’d better get up to him,’ observed Mr. Sponge, ’or he’ll spring all the birds.’

Jog, however, blundered on at his own pace, growling: 

‘Most (puff) haste, least (wheeze) speed.’

The dog was now fast drawing upon where the birds lit; and Mr. Sponge and Jog having reached the top of the hill, Mr. Sponge stood still to watch the result.

Up whirred four birds out of a patch of gorse behind the dog, all presenting most beautiful shots.  Jog blazed a barrel at them without touching a feather, and the report of the gun immediately raised three brace more into the thick of which he fired with similar success.  They all skimmed away unhurt.

‘Well missed!’ exclaimed Mr. Sponge again.  ’You’re what they call a good shooter but a bad hitter.’

‘You’re what they call a (wheeze) fellow,’ growled Jog.

He meant to say ‘saucy,’ but the word wouldn’t rise.  He then commenced reloading his gun, and lecturing P-o-o-n-to, who still continued his exertions, and inwardly anathematizing Mr. Sponge.  He wished he had left him at home.  Then recollecting Mrs. Jog, he thought perhaps he was as well where he was.  Still his presence made him shoot worse than usual, and there was no occasion for that.

‘Let me have a shot now,’ said Mr. Sponge.

‘Shot (puff)—­shot (wheeze); well, take a shot if you choose,’ replied he.

Just as Mr. Sponge got the gun, up rose the eleventh bird, and he knocked it over.

[Illustration:  MR. SPONGE GIVES PONTO A LESSON]

‘That’s the way to do it!’ exclaimed Mr. Sponge, as the bird fell dead before Ponto.

The excited dog, unused to such descents, snatched it up and ran off.  Just as he was getting out of shot, Mr. Sponge fired the other barrel at him, causing him to drop the bird and run yelping and howling away.  Jog was furious.  He stamped, and gasped, and fumed, and wheezed, and seemed like to burst with anger and indignation.  Though the dog ran away as hard as he could lick, Jog insisted that he was mortally wounded, and would die.  ’He never saw so (wheeze) a thing done.  He wouldn’t have taken twenty pounds for the dog.  No, he wouldn’t have taken thirty.  Forty wouldn’t have bought him.  He was worth fifty of anybody’s money,’ and so he went on, fuming and advancing his value as he spoke.