At last they got started, Jog driving, Sponge occupying the low seat, Jog’s flail and Sponge’s cane whip- stick stuck in the straps of the apron. Jog was very crusty at first, and did little but whip and flog the old horse, and puff and growl about being late, keeping people waiting, over-driving the horse, and so on.

‘Have a cigar?’ at last asked Sponge, opening the well-filled case, and tendering that olive-branch to his companion.

‘Cigar (wheeze), cigar (puff)?’ replied Jog, eyeing the case; ‘why, no, p’raps not, I think (wheeze), thank’e.’

‘Do you never smoke?’ asked Sponge.

‘(Puff -- wheeze) Not often,’ replied Jogglebury, looking about him with an air of indifference. He did not like to say no, because Springwheat smoked, though Mrs Springey highly disapproved of it.

‘You’ll find them very mild,’ observed Sponge, taking one out for himself, and again tendering the case to his friend.

‘Mild (wheeze), mild (puff), are they?’ said Jog, thinking he would try one.

Mr Sponge then struck a light, and, getting his own cigar well under way, lit one for his friend, and presented it to him. They then went puffing, and whipping, and smoking in silence. Jog spoke first.

‘I’m going to be (puff) sick,’ observed he, slowly and solemnly.

‘Hope not,’ replied Mr Sponge, with a hearty whiff up into the air.

‘I am going to be (puff) sick,’ observed Jog, after another pause.

‘Be sick on your own side, then,’ replied Sponge, with another hearty whiff.

‘By the (puff) powers! I am (puff) sick!’ exclaimed Jogglebury, after another pause, and throwing away the cigar. ‘Oh, dear!’ exclaimed he, ‘you shouldn’t have given me that nasty (puff) thing.’

‘My dear fellow, I didn’t know it would make you sick,’ replied Mr Sponge

‘Well, but (puff) if they (wheeze) other people sick, in all (puff) probability they’ll (wheeze) me. There!’ exclaimed he, pulling up again.

The delays occasioned by these catastrophes, together with the time lost by ‘Obin and Ichard,’ threw our sportsmen out considerably. When they reached Chalkerley-gate it wanted ten minutes to eleven, and they had still three miles to go.

‘We shall be late,’ observed Sponge, inwardly denouncing ‘Obin and Ichard.’

‘Shouldn’t wonder,’ replied Jog, adding, with a puff into his frill, ‘consequence of making me sick, you see.’

‘My dear fellow, if you don’t know your own stomach by this time, you did ought to do,’ replied Mr Sponge.

‘I (puff) flatter myself I do (wheeze) my own stomach,’ replied Jogglebury, tartly.

They then rumbled on for some time in silence.

When they came within sight of Snobston Green, the coast was clear. Not a red coat, or hunting indication of any sort, was to be seen.

‘I told you so (puff)!’ growled Jog, blowing full into his frill, and pulling up short.