'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.
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