‘Could you?’ growled Jog; ‘ ’spose you wipe your own,’ added he, not understanding the meaning of the term.

Meanwhile, old Ponto went rolling away most energetically, the farther he went the farther he was left behind, till the hare having scuttled out of sight, he wheeled about and came leisurely back, as if he was doing all right.

Jog was very wrath, and vented his anger on the dog, which, he declared, had caused him to miss, vowing, as he rammed away at the charge, that he never missed such a shot before. Mr Sponge stood eyeing him with a look of incredulity, thinking that a man who could miss such a shot could miss anything. They were now all ready for a fresh start, and Ponto, having pocketed his objurgation, dashed forward again up the rising ground over which the covey had dropped.

Jog’s thick wind was a serious impediment to the expeditious mounting of the hill, and the dog seemed aware of his infirmity, and to take pleasure in aggravating him.

‘P--o--o--n--to!’ gasped Jog, as he slipped, and scrambled, and toiled, sorely impeded by the incumbrance of his gun.

But P--o--o--n--to heeded him not. He knew his master couldn’t catch him, and if he did, that he durstn’t flog him.

‘P--o--o--n--to!’ gasped Jog again, still louder, catching at a bush to prevent his slipping back. ‘To--o--h-- o--o! P--o--o--n--to!’ wheezed he; but the dog just rolled his great stern, and bustled about more actively than ever.

‘Hang ye! but I’d cut you in two if I had you!’ exclaimed Mr Sponge, eyeing his independent proceedings.

‘He’s not a bad (puff) dog,’ observed Jog, mopping the perspiration from his brow.

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

‘D’ye think not (wheeze)?’ asked Jog.

‘Sure of it,’ replied Sponge.

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

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

‘‘To--o--h--o--o! P--o--o--n--to!’ 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.