Sponge emerged at the back door.

[Illustration: FRANTIC DELIGHT OF PONTO]

Jog's pace was about two miles and a half an hour, stoppages included, and
he thought it advisable to prepare Mr. Sponge for the trial. He then
shouldered his gun and waddled away, first over the stile into Farmer
Stiffland's stubble, round which Ponto ranged in the most riotous,
independent way, regardless of Jog's whistles and rates and the crack of
his little knotty whip. Jog then crossed the old pasture into Mr. Lowland's
turnips, into which Ponto dashed in the same energetic way, but these
impediments to travelling soon told on his great buttermilk carcass, and
brought him to a more subdued pace; still, the dog had a good deal more
energy than his master. Round he went, sniffing and hunting, then dashing
right through the middle of the field, as if he was out on his own account
alone, and had nothing whatever to do with a master.

'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
a