fforded 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.

'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