'I shall only just take a (puff) stroll over moy (wheeze) ter-ri-to-ry,'
observed Jog, as Mr. 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.
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