'Seek dead!' presently said the shooter, with a slight wave of his hand;
and in an instant each dog was picking up his bird.

'I'll have a word with you,' said Sponge, 'on and off-ing' the hedge, his
beat causing the shooter to start and look as if inclined for a run; second
thoughts said Sponge was too near, and he'd better brave it.

'What sport?' asked Sponge, striding towards him.

'Oh, pretty middling,' replied the shooter, a great red-headed, freckly
faced fellow, with backward-lying whiskers, crowned in a drab rustic. 'Oh,
pretty middling,' repeated he, not knowing whether to act on the friendly
or defensive.

'Fine day!' said Sponge, eyeing his fox-maskey whiskers and stout, muscular
frame.

'It is,' replied the shooter; adding, 'just followed my birds over the
boundary. No 'fence, I s'pose--no 'fence.'

'Oh no,' said Mr. Sponge. 'Jog, I dessay, 'll be very glad to see you.'

'Oh, you'll be Mr. Sponge?' observed the stranger, jumping to a conclusion.

'I am,' replied our hero; adding, 'may I ask who I have the honour of
addressing?'

'My name's Romford--Charley Romford; everybody knows me. Very glad to make
your 'quaintance,' tendering Sponge a great, rough, heavy hand. 'I was
goin' to call upon you,' observed the stranger, as he ceased swinging
Sponge's arm to and fro like a pump-handle; 'I was goin' to call upon you,
to see if you'd come over to Washingforde, and have some shootin' at me
Oncle's--Oncle Gilroy's, at Queercove Hill.'

'Most happy!' exclaimed Sponge, thinking it was the very thing he wanted.

'Get a day with the harriers, too, if you like,' continued the shooter,
increasing the temptation.

'Better still!' thought Sponge.

'I've only bachelor 'commodation to offer you; but p'raps you'll not mind
roughing it a bit?' observed Romford.

'Oh, faith, not I!' replied Sponge, thinking of the luxuries of
Puffington's bachelor habitation. 'What sort of stables have you?' asked
our friend.

'Capital stables--excellent stables!' replied the shooter; 'stalls six feet
in the clear, by twelve dip (deep), iron racks, oak stall-posts covered
with zinc, beautiful oats, capital beans, splendacious hay--won without a
shower!'

'Bravo!' exclaimed Sponge, thinking he had lit on his legs, and might snap
his fingers at Jog and his hints. He'd take the high hand, and give Jog up.

'I'm your man!' said Sponge, in high glee.

'When will you come?' asked Romford.

'To-morrow!' replied Sponge firmly.