"Me in a passion?—I'm not in a passion—I'm on'y—on'y—nettled!" replied he, recovering his legs and his good humour. Mr. Grubb, taking warning by his friend's slip, cautiously looked out for a narrower part of the ditch, and executed the saltatory transit with all the agility of a poodle.
They soon penetrated the thicket, and a bird hopped so near them, that they could not avoid hitting it.—Grubb fired, and Sprigg's gun echoed the report.
"Ve've done him!" cried Spriggs.
"Ve!—me, if you please."
"Vell—no matter," replied his chum, "you shot a bird, and I shot too!—Vot's that?—my heye, I hear a voice a hollering like winkin; bolt!"
Away scampered Spriggs, and off ran Grubb, never stopping till he reached a high paling, which, hastily climbing, he found himself literally upon tenter-hooks.
"There's a man a coming, old fellow," said an urchin, grinning.
"A man coming! vich vay? do tell me vich vay?" supplicated the sportsman. The little rogue, however, only stuck his thumb against his snub nose—winked, and ran off.
But Mr. Grubb was not long held in suspense; a volley of inelegant phrases saluted his ears, while the thong of a hunting-whip twisted playfully about his leg. Finding the play unequal, he wisely gave up the game—by dropping his bird on one side, and himself on the other; at the same time reluctantly leaving a portion of his nether garment behind him.
"Here you are!" cried his affectionate friend,—picking him up—"ain't you cotch'd it finely?"