“Now let's load and prime—and make ready,” said Mr. Richard, when they had entered an extensive meadow, “and—I say—vot are you about? Don't put the shot in afore the powder, you gaby!”
Having charged, they shouldered their pieces and waded through the tall grass.
“O! crikey!—there's a heap o' birds,” exclaimed Spriggs, looking up at a flight of alarmed sparrows. “Shall I bring 'em down?”
“I vish you could! I'd have a shot at 'em,” replied Mr. Grubb, “but they're too high for us, as the alderman said ven they brought him a couple o' partridges vot had been kept overlong!”
“My eye! if there ain't a summat a moving in that 'ere grass yonder—cock your eye!” “Cock your gun—and be quiet,” said Mr. Grubb. The anxiety of the two sportsmen was immense. “It's an hare—depend on't—stoop down—pint your gun,—and when I say fire—fire! there it is—fire!”
Bang! bang! went the two guns, and a piercing squeak followed the report.
“Ve've tickled him,” exclaimed Spriggs, as they ran to pick up the spoil.
“Ve've pickled him, rayther,” cried Grubbs, “for by gosh it's a piggy!”