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 of the rising ground on which
Mr. Sponge had marked the birds. Ponto, whose energetic exertions had been
gradually relaxing, until he had settled down to a leisurely hunting-dog,
suddenly stood transfixed, with the right foot up, and his gaze settled on
a rushy tuft.
'P-o-o-n-to!' ejaculated Jog, expecting every minute to see him dash at it.
Pages:
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782