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
afforded 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).
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