'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.
'Well missed!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge again. 'You're what they call a good shooter but a bad hitter.'
'You're what they call a (wheeze) fellow,' growled Jog.
He meant to say 'saucy,' but the word wouldn't rise. He then commenced reloading his gun, and lecturing P-o-o-n-to, who still continued his exertions, and inwardly anathematizing Mr. Sponge. He wished he had left him at home. Then recollecting Mrs. Jog, he thought perhaps he was as well where he was. Still his presence made him shoot worse than usual, and there was no occasion for that.
'Let me have a shot now,' said Mr. Sponge.