CHAPTER III.

The Sportsmen trespass on an Enclosure—­Grubb gets on a paling and runs a risk of being impaled.

“Twig them trees?”—­said Grubb.

“Prime!” exclaimed Spriggs, “and vith their leaves ve’ll have an hunt there.—­Don’t you hear the birds a crying ‘sveet,’ ‘sveet?’ Thof all birds belong to the Temperance Society by natur’, everybody knows as they’re partic’larly fond of a little s’rub!”

“Think ve could leap the ditch?” said Mr. Richard, regarding with a longing look the tall trees and the thick underwood.

“Lauk!  I’ll over it in a jiffy,” replied the elastic Mr. Spriggs there ain’t no obelisk a sportsman can’t overcome”—­and no sooner had be uttered these encouraging words, than he made a spring, and came ‘close-legged’ upon the opposite bank; unfortunately, however, he lost his balance, and fell plump upon a huge stinging nettle, which would have been a treat to any donkey in the kingdom!

“Oh!—­cuss the thing!” shrieked Mr. Spriggs, losing his equanimity with his equilibrium.

“Don’t be in a passion, Spriggs,” said Grubb, laughing.

“Me in a passion?—­I’m not in a passion—­I’m on’y—­on’y—­nettled!” replied he, recovering his legs and his good humour.  Mr. Grubb, taking warning by his friend’s slip, cautiously looked out for a narrower part of the ditch, and executed the saltatory transit with all the agility of a poodle.

They soon penetrated the thicket, and a bird hopped so near them, that they could not avoid hitting it.—­Grubb fired, and Sprigg’s gun echoed the report.

“Ve’ve done him!” cried Spriggs.

“Ve!—­me, if you please.”

“Vell—­no matter,” replied his chum, “you shot a bird, and I shot too!—­Vot’s that?—­my heye, I hear a voice a hollering like winkin; —­bolt!”

Away scampered Spriggs, and off ran Grubb, never stopping till he reached a high paling, which, hastily climbing, he found himself literally upon tenter-hooks.

“There’s a man a coming, old fellow,” said an urchin, grinning.

“A man coming! vich vay? do tell me vich vay?” supplicated the sportsman.  The little rogue, however, only stuck his thumb against his snub nose—­winked, and ran off.

But Mr. Grubb was not long held in suspense; a volley of inelegant phrases saluted his ears, while the thong of a hunting-whip twisted playfully about his leg.  Finding the play unequal, he wisely gave up the game—­by dropping his bird on one side, and himself on the other; at the same time reluctantly leaving a portion of his nether garment behind him.

“Here you are!” cried his affectionate friend,—­picking him up—­“ain’t you cotch’d it finely?”

“Ain’t I, that’s all?” said the almost breathless Mr. Grubb, “I’m almost dead.”

“Dead!—­nonsense—­to be sure, you may say as how you’re off the hooks! and precious glad you ought to be.”