xclaimed Mr. Sponge,
eyeing his independent proceedings.

'He's not a bad (puff) dog,' observed Jog, mopping the perspiration from
his brow.

'He's not a good 'un,' retorted Mr. Sponge.

'D'ye think not (wheeze)?' asked Jog.

'Sure of it,' replied Sponge.

'Serves me,' growled Jog, labouring up the hill.

'Easy served,' replied Mr. Sponge, whistling, and eyeing the independent
animal.

'T-o-o-h-o-o! P-o-o-n-t-o!' gasped Jog, as he dashed forward on reaching
level ground more eagerly than ever.

'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.

'Shot (puff)--shot (wheeze); well, take a shot if you choose,' replied he.

Just as Mr. Sponge got the gun, up rose the eleventh bird, and he knocked
it over.

[Illustration: MR. SPONGE GIVES PONTO A LESSON]

'_That's_ the way to do it!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, as the bird fell dead
before Ponto.

The excited dog, unused to such descents, snatched it up and ran off. Just
as he was getting out of shot, Mr. Sponge fired the other barrel at him,
causing him to drop the bird and run yelping and howling away. Jog was
furious. He stamped, and gasped, and fumed, and wheezed, and seemed like to
burst with