Sponge fired the other barrel at him,
causing him to drop the bird and run yelping and howling away. Jog was
furious. He stamped, and gasped, and fumed, and wheezed, and seemed like to
burst with anger and indignation. Though the dog ran away as hard as he
could lick, Jog insisted that he was mortally wounded, and would die. 'He
never saw so (wheeze) a thing done. He wouldn't have taken twenty pounds
for the dog. No, he wouldn't have taken thirty. Forty wouldn't have bought
him. He was worth fifty of anybody's money,' and so he went on, fuming and
advancing his value as he spoke.
Mr. Sponge stole away to where the dog had dropped the bird; and Mr. Jog,
availing himself of his absence, retraced his steps down the hill, and
struck off home at a much faster pace than he came. Arrived there, he found
the dog in the kitchen, somewhat sore from the visitation of the shot, but
not sufficiently injured to prevent his enjoying a most liberal plate of
stick-jaw pudding supplied by a general contribution of the servants. Jog's
wrath was then turned in another direction, and he blew up for the waste
and extravagance of the act, hinting pretty freely that he knew who it was
that had set them against it.
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