'Whose are they?' asked Mr. Sponge.
'Oh (puff), Mrs. Moses's,' gasped Jog. 'My stoopid old uncle,' continued he, stopping, and laying hold of Mr. Sponge's arm, as if to illustrate his position, but in reality to get breath, 'my stoopid old uncle (puff) missed buying that (wheeze) land when old Harry Griperton died. I only wanted that to make moy (wheeze) ter-ri-to-ry extend all the (gasp) way up to Cockwhistle Park there,' continued he, climbing on to a stile they now approached, and setting aside the top stone. 'That's Cockwhistle Park, up there—just where you see the (puff) windmill—then (puff) moy (wheeze) ter-ri-to-ry comes up to the (wheeze) fallow you see all yellow with runch; and if my old (puff) uncle (wheeze) Crowdey had had the sense of a (gasp) goose, he'd have (wheezed) that when it was sold. Moy (puff) name was (wheeze) Jogglebury,' added he, 'before my (gasp) uncle died.'
'Well, never mind about that,' replied Mr. Sponge; 'let us go on after these birds.'
'Oh, we'll (puff) up to them presently,' observed Jog, labouring away, with half a ton of clay at each foot, the sun having dispelled the frost where it struck, and made the land carry.
'Presently!' retorted Mr. Sponge. 'But you should make haste, man.'
'Well, but let me go my own (puff) pace,' snapped Jog, labouring away.
'Pace!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, 'your own crawl, you should say.'
'Indeed!' growled Jog, with an angry snort.
They now got through a well-established cattle-gap into a very rushy, squashy, gorse-grown pasture, at the bottom of the rising ground on which Mr. Sponge had marked the birds. Ponto, whose energetic exertions had been gradually relaxing, until he had settled down to a leisurely hunting-dog, suddenly stood transfixed, with the right foot up, and his gaze settled on a rushy tuft.
'P-o-o-n-to!' ejaculated Jog, expecting every minute to see him dash at it. 'P-o-o-n-to!' repeated he, raising his hand.