'Why, your dog'll spring all the birds out of shot,' observed Mr. Sponge; and, just as he spoke, whirr! 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!' exclaimed 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 before them. 'Let's break the covey; we shall bag them better singly.'
'Take time (puff), replied Jog, snorting into his frill, and measuring out his powder most leisurely. 'Take time (wheeze),' repeated he; 'they're just on the bounds of moy ter-ri-to-ry.'
Jog had had many a game at romps with these birds, and knew their haunts and habits to a nicety. The covey consisted of thirteen at first, but by repeated blazings into the 'brown of 'em,' he had succeeded in knocking down two. Jog was not one of your conceited shots, who never fired but when he was sure of killing; on the contrary, he always let drive far or near; and even if he shot a hare, which he sometimes did, with the first barrel, he always popped the second into her, to make sure. The chairman's shooting afforded amusement to the neighbourhood. On one occasion a party of reapers, having watched him miss twelve shots in succession, gave him three cheers on coming to the thirteenth—but to our day. Jog had now got his gun reloaded with mischief, the cap put on, and all ready for a fresh start. Ponto, meanwhile, had been ranging, Jog thinking it better to let him take the edge off his ardour than conform to the strict rules of lying down or coming to heel. 'Now, let's on,' cried Mr. Sponge, stepping out quickly.
'Take time (puff), take time (wheeze),' gasped Jog, waddling along; 'better let 'em settle a little (puff). Better let 'em settle a little (gasp),' added he, labouring on.
'Oh no, keep them moving,' replied Mr. Sponge, 'keep them moving. Only get at 'em on the hill, and drive 'em into the fields below, and we shall have rare fun.'
'But the (puff) fields below are not mine,' gasped Jog.