'Seek dead!' presently said the shooter, with a slight wave of his hand;
and in an instant each dog was picking up his bird.
'I'll have a word with you,' said Sponge, 'on and off-ing' the hedge, his
beat causing the shooter to start and look as if inclined for a run; second
thoughts said Sponge was too near, and he'd better brave it.
'What sport?' asked Sponge, striding towards him.
'Oh, pretty middling,' replied the shooter, a great red-headed, freckly
faced fellow, with backward-lying whiskers, crowned in a drab rustic. 'Oh,
pretty middling,' repeated he, not knowing whether to act on the friendly
or defensive.
'Fine day!' said Sponge, eyeing his fox-maskey whiskers and stout, muscular
frame.
'It is,' replied the shooter; adding, 'just followed my birds over the
boundary. No 'fence, I s'pose--no 'fence.'
'Oh no,' said Mr. Sponge. 'Jog, I dessay, 'll be very glad to see you.'
'Oh, you'll be Mr. Sponge?' observed the stranger, jumping to a conclusion.
'I am,' replied our hero; adding, 'may I ask who I have the honour of
addressing?'
'My name's Romford--Charley Romford; everybody knows me.
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