SCO MB. SPONGE'S SPORTING TOUR. 



"You'd better get up to him," observed Mr. Sponge, "or hc 1 II 

 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 re-loading his gun, and lecturing P-o-o-n-to, who 

 still continued his exertions, and inwardly anathematising 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 Avas 

 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. 



" That's the way to do it ! " exclaimed Mr. Sponge, as the bird 

 fell dead before Ponto. 



The excited dog, unused to such desceuts, 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 wmeezed, 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. 

 Porty 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. 



Mr. Sponge stole away to where the dog had dropped the bird ; 

 and Mr. Jog, availing himself of his absence, retraced his steps 

 down the hill, and struck off home at a much faster pace than he 

 came. Arrived there, he found the dog in the kitchen, somewhat 

 sore from the visitation of the shot, but not sufficiently injured to 



