Mr. Sponge's Sporting Tour Part 72

'Well, now that's what I tell Mr. Jogglebury,' exclaimed she. 'Mr. Jog's so shy, that there's no getting him to do what he ought,' added the lady. 'No one, to hear him, would think he's the great man he is.'

'Ought (puff)--ought (wheeze),' retorted Jog, puffing furiously into his capacious shirt-frill. 'It's one (puff) thing to know (puff) people out with the (wheeze) hounds, and another to go calling upon them at their (gasp) houses.' 'Well, but, my dear, that's the way people make acquaintance,' replied his wife. 'Isn't it, Mr. Sponge?' continued she, appealing to our friend.

'Oh, certainly,' replied Mr. Sponge, 'certainly; all men are equal out hunting.'

'So I say,' exclaimed Mrs. Jogglebury; 'and yet I can't get Jog to call on Sir George Stiff, though he meets him frequently out hunting.'

'Well, but then I can't (puff) upon him out hunting (wheeze), and then we're not all equal (gasp) when we go home.'

So saying, our friend rose from his chair, and after giving each leg its usual shake, and banging his pockets behind to feel that he had his keys safe, he strutted consequentially up to the window to see how the day looked.

Mr. Sponge, not being desirous of continuing the 'calling' controversy, especially as it might lead to inquiries relative to his acquaintance with Sir Harry, finished the contents of his plate quickly, drank up his tea, and was presently alongside of his host, asking him whether he 'was good for a ride, a walk, or what?'

'A (puff) ride, a (wheeze) walk, or a (gasp) what?' repeated Jog thoughtfully. 'No, I (puff) think I'll stay at (puff) home,' thinking that would be the safest plan.

"Ord, hang it, you'll never lie at earth such a day as this!' exclaimed Sponge, looking out on the bright, sunny landscape.

'Got a great deal to do,' retorted Jog, who, like all thoroughly idle men, was always dreadfully busy. He then dived into a bundle of rough sticks, and proceeded to select one to fashion into the head of Mr. Hume. Sponge, being unable to make anything of him, was obliged to exhaust the day in the stable, and in sauntering about the country. It was clear Jog was determined to be rid of him, and he was sadly puzzled what to do. Dinner found his host in no better humour, and after a sort of Quakers' meeting of an evening, they parted heartily sick of each other.

CHAPTER LV

THE TRIGGER

Jog slept badly again, and arose next morning full of projects for getting rid of his impudent, unceremonious, free-and-easy guest.

Having tried both an up and a downstairs shout, he now went out and planted himself immediately under Mr. Sponge's bedroom window, and, clearing his voice, commenced his usual vociferations.

'Bartholo--_m--e--w_!' whined he. '_Bartholo--m--e--w_!' repeated he, somewhat louder. 'BAR--THOLO--_m--e--w_!' roared he, in a voice of thunder.

Bartholomew did not answer.

'Murry Ann!' exclaimed Jog, after a pause. '_Murry Ann!_' repeated he, still louder. 'MURRAY ANN!' roared he, at the top of his voice.

'Comin', sir! comin'!' exclaimed Mary Ann, peeping down upon him from the garret-window.

'Oh, Murry Ann,' cried Mr. Jog, looking up, and catching the ends of her blue ribbons streaming past the window-frame, as she changed her nightcap for a day one, 'oh, Murry Ann, you'd better be (puff)in' forrard with the (gasp) breakfast; Mr. Sponge'll most likely be (wheeze)in' away to-day.'

'Yes, sir,' replied Mary Ann, adjusting the cap becomingly.

'Confounded, puffing, wheezing, gasping, broken-winded old blockhead it is!' growled Mr. Sponge, wishing he could get to his former earth at Puffington's, or anywhere else. When he got down he found Jog in a very roomy, bright, green-plush shooting-jacket, with pockets innumerable, and a whistle suspended to a b.u.t.ton-hole. His nether man was encased in a pair of most dilapidated white moleskins, that had been degraded from hunting into shooting ones, and whose cracks and darns showed the perils to which their wearer had been exposed. Below these were drab, horn-b.u.t.toned gaiters, and hob-nailed shoes.

'Going a-gunning, are you?' asked Mr. Sponge, after the morning salutation, which Jog returned most gruffly.

'I'll go with you,' said Mr. Sponge, at once dispelling the delusion of his wheezing away.

'Only going to frighten the (puff) rooks off the (gasp) wheat,' replied Jog carelessly, not wishing to let Sponge see what a numb hand he was with a gun.

'I thought you told me you were going to get me a hare,' observed Mrs. Jog; adding, 'I'm sure shooting is a much more rational amus.e.m.e.nt than tearing your clothes going after the hounds,' eyeing the much dilapidated moleskins as she spoke.

Mrs. Jog found shooting more useful than hunting.

'Oh, if a (puff) hare comes in my (gasp) way, I'll turn her over,' replied Jog carelessly, as if turning them over was quite a matter of course with him; adding, 'but I'm not (wheezing) out for the express purpose of shooting one.'

'Ah, well,' observed Sponge, 'I'll go with you, all the same.'

'But I've only got one gun,' gasped Jog, thinking it would be worse to have Sponge laughing at his shooting than even leaving him at home.

'Then, we'll shoot turn and turn about,' replied the pertinacious guest.

Jog did his best to dissuade him, observing that the birds were (puff) scarce and (wheeze) wild, and the (gasp) hares much troubled with poachers; but Mr. Sponge wanted a walk, and moreover had a fancy for seeing Jog handle his gun.

Having cut himself some extremely substantial sandwiches, and filled his 'monkey' full of sherry, our friend Jog slipped out the back way to loosen old Ponto, who acted the triple part of pointer, house-dog, and horse to Gustavus James. He was a great fat, black-and-white brute, with a head like a hat-box, a tail like a clothes-peg, and a back as broad as a well-fed sheep's. The old brute was so frantic at the sight of his master in his green coat, and wide-awake to match, that he jumped and bounced, and barked, and rattled his chain, and set up such yells, that his noise sounded all over the house, and soon brought Mr. Sponge to the scene of action, where stood our friend, loading his gun and looking as consequential as possible.

'I shall only just take a (puff) stroll over moy (wheeze) ter-ri-to-ry,'

observed Jog, as Mr. Sponge emerged at the back door.

[Ill.u.s.tration: FRANTIC DELIGHT OF PONTO]

Jog's pace was about two miles and a half an hour, stoppages included, and he thought it advisable to prepare Mr. Sponge for the trial. He then shouldered his gun and waddled away, first over the stile into Farmer Stiffland's stubble, round which Ponto ranged in the most riotous, independent way, regardless of Jog's whistles and rates and the crack of his little knotty whip. Jog then crossed the old pasture into Mr. Lowland's turnips, into which Ponto dashed in the same energetic way, but these impediments to travelling soon told on his great b.u.t.termilk carca.s.s, and brought him to a more subdued pace; still, the dog had a good deal more energy than his master. Round he went, sniffing and hunting, then dashing right through the middle of the field, as if he was out on his own account alone, and had nothing whatever to do with a master.

'Why, your dog'll spring all the birds out of shot,' observed Mr. Sponge; and, just as he spoke, whirr! rose a covey of partridges, eleven in number, quite at an impossible distance, but Jog blazed away all the same.

"Ord rot it, man! if you'd only held your (something) tongue,' growled Jog, as he shaded the sun from his eyes to mark them down, 'I'd have (wheezed) half of them over.'

'Nonsense, man!' replied Mr. Sponge. 'They were a mile out of shot.'

'I think I should know my (puff) gun better than (wheeze) you,' replied Jog, bringing it down to load.

'They're down!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, who, having watched them till they began to skim in their flight, saw them stop, flap their wings, and drop among some straggling gorse on the hill before them. 'Let's break the covey; we shall bag them better singly.'

'Take time (puff), replied Jog, snorting into his frill, and measuring out his powder most leisurely. 'Take time (wheeze),' repeated he; 'they're just on the bounds of moy ter-ri-to-ry.'

Jog had had many a game at romps with these birds, and knew their haunts and habits to a nicety. 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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). Better let 'em settle a little (gasp),'

added he, labouring on.

'Oh no, keep them moving,' replied Mr. Sponge, 'keep them moving. Only get at 'em on the hill, and drive 'em into the fields below, and we shall have rare fun.'

'But the (puff) fields below are not mine,' gasped Jog.

'Whose are they?' asked Mr. Sponge.

'Oh (puff), Mrs. Moses's,' gasped Jog. 'My stoopid old uncle,' continued he, stopping, and laying hold of Mr. Sponge's arm, as if to ill.u.s.trate his position, but in reality to get breath, 'my stoopid old uncle (puff) missed buying that (wheeze) land when old Harry Griperton died. I only wanted that to make moy (wheeze) ter-ri-to-ry extend all the (gasp) way up to c.o.c.kwhistle Park there,' continued he, climbing on to a stile they now approached, and setting aside the top stone. 'That's c.o.c.kwhistle Park, up there--just where you see the (puff) windmill--then (puff) moy (wheeze) ter-ri-to-ry comes up to the (wheeze) fallow you see all yellow with runch; and if my old (puff) uncle (wheeze) Crowdey had had the sense of a (gasp) goose, he'd have (wheezed) that when it was sold. Moy (puff) name was (wheeze) Jogglebury,' added he, 'before my (gasp) uncle died.'