362 ME. SPONGE'S SPOETING TOUE. 



Jog did his best to dissuade him, observing that the birds were 

 (puff) scarce and (wheeze) wild, and the (gasp) hares much 

 troubled with poachers ; but Mr. Sponge wanted a walk, and 

 moreover had a fancy for seeing Jog handle his gun. 



Having cut himself some extremely substantial sandwiches, and 

 filled his " monkey " full of sherry, our friend Jog slipped out the 

 back way to loosen old Ponto, who acted the triple part of pointer, 

 house-dog, and horse to Gustavus James. He was a great fat, 

 black-and-white brute, with a head like a hat-box, a tail like a 

 clothes-peg, and a back as broad as a well-fed sheep's. The old 

 brute was so frantic at the sight of his master in his green coat, 

 and wide-awake to match, that he jumped and bounced, and 

 barked, and rattled his chain, and set up such yells, that his noise 

 sounded all over the house, and soon brought Mr. Sponge to the 

 scene of action, where stood our friend, loading his gun and looking 

 as consequential as possible. 



" I shall only just take a (puff) stroll over moy (wheeze) ter-ri- 

 to-ry," observed Jog, as Mr. Sponge emerged at the back door. 



Jog's pace was about two miles and a half an hour, stoppages 

 included, and he thought it advisable to prepare Mr. Sponge for 

 the trial. He then shouldered his gun and waddled away, first 

 over the stile into Farmer Stiffland's stubble, round which Ponto 

 ranged in the most riotous, independent way, regardless of Jog's 

 whistles and rates, and the crack of his little knotty whip. Jog 

 then crossed the old pasture into Mr. Lowland's turnips, into 

 which Ponto dashed in the same energetic way, but these impedi- 

 ments to travelling soon told on his great buttermilk carcass, 

 and brought him to a more subdued pace ; still, the dog had a 

 good deal more energy than his master. Round he went, sniffing 

 and hunting, then dashing right through the middle of the field, 

 as if he was out on his own account alone, and had nothing 

 whatever to do with a master. 



" Why, your dog'll spring all the birds out of shot," observed 

 Mr. Sponge ; and, just as he spoke, tvhirr ! rose a covey of 

 partridges, eleven in number, quite at an impossible distance, but 

 Jog blazed away all the same. 



" Ord rot it, man ! if you'd only held your (something) tongue," 

 growled Jog, as he shaded the sun from his eyes to mark them 

 down, " I'd have (wheezed) half of them over." 



" Nonsense, man ! " replied Mr. Sponge. " They were a mile 

 out of shot." 



" I think I should know my (puff) gun better than (wheeze) 

 you," replied Jog, bringing it down to load. 



" They're down ! " exclajmed Mr. Sponge, who, having watched 

 them till they began to skim in their flight, saw them stop, flap 

 their wings, and drop among some straggling gorse on the hill 



