Mr. Sponge's Sporting Tour

by Robert Smith Surtees

  CHAPTER LV

  THE TRIGGER

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

  Having tried both an up and a downstairs shout, he now went out and plantedhimself immediately under Mr. Sponge's bedroom window, and, clearing hisvoice, 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 ofthunder.

  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 thegarret-window.

  'Oh, Murry Ann,' cried Mr. Jog, looking up, and catching the ends of herblue ribbons streaming past the window-frame, as she changed her nightcapfor 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 itis!' growled Mr. Sponge, wishing he could get to his former earth atPuffington's, or anywhere else. When he got down he found Jog in a veryroomy, bright, green-plush shooting-jacket, with pockets innumerable, and awhistle suspended to a button-hole. His nether man was encased in a pair ofmost dilapidated white moleskins, that had been degraded from hunting intoshooting ones, and whose cracks and darns showed the perils to which theirwearer had been exposed. Below these were drab, horn-buttoned gaiters, andhob-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 hiswheezing away.

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

  '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 amusement than tearingyour clothes going after the hounds,' eyeing the much dilapidated moleskinsas 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,' repliedJog carelessly, as if turning them over was quite a matter of course withhim; adding, 'but I'm not (wheezing) out for the express purpose ofshooting 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 haveSponge 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 Joghandle 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 loosenold Ponto, who acted the triple part of pointer, house-dog, and horse toGustavus James. He was a great fat, black-and-white brute, with a head likea hat-box, a tail like a clothes-peg, and a back as broad as a well-fedsheep's. The old brute was so frantic at the sight of his master in hisgreen coat, and wide-awake to match, that he jumped and bounced, andbarked, and rattled his chain, and set up such yells, that his noisesounded all over the house, and soon brought Mr. Sponge to the scene ofaction, where stood our friend, loading his gun and looking asconsequential 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.

  FRANTIC DELIGHT OF PONTO]

  Jog's pace was about two miles and a half an hour, stoppages included, andhe thought it advisable to prepare Mr. Sponge for the trial. He thenshouldered his gun and waddled away, first over the stile into FarmerStiffland's stubble, round which Ponto ranged in the most riotous,independent way, regardless of Jog's whistles and rates and the crack ofhis little knotty whip. Jog then crossed the old pasture into Mr. Lowland'sturnips, into which Ponto dashed in the same energetic way, but theseimpediments to travelling soon told on his great buttermilk carcass, andbrought him to a more subdued pace; still, the dog had a good deal moreenergy than his master. Round he went, sniffing and hunting, then dashingright through the middle of the field, as if he was out on his own accountalone, 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,' growledJog, 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,' repliedJog, bringing it down to load.

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

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

  Jog had had many a game at romps with these birds, and knew their hauntsand habits to a nicety. The covey consisted of thirteen at first, but byrepeated blazings into the 'brown of 'em,' he had succeeded in knockingdown two. Jog was not one of your conceited shots, who never fired but whenhe 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 shootingafforded amusement to the neighbourhood. On one occasion a party ofreapers, having watched him miss twelve shots in succession, gave him threecheers on coming to the thirteenth--but to our day. Jog had now got his gunreloaded 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 takethe edge off his ardour than conform to the strict rules of lying down orcoming to heel. 'Now, let's on,' cried Mr. Sponge, stepping out quickly.

  'Take time (puff), take time (wheeze),' gasped Jog, waddling along; 'betterlet '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 getat 'em on the hill, and drive 'em into the fields below, and we shall haverare 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,' continuedhe, stopping, and laying hold of Mr. Sponge's arm, as if to illustrate hisposition, but in reality to get breath, 'my stoopid old uncle (puff) missedbuying that (wheeze) land when old Harry Griperton died. I only wanted thatto make moy (wheeze) ter-ri-to-ry extend all the (gasp) way up toCockwhistle Park there,' continued he, climbing on to a stile they nowapproached, and setting aside the top stone. 'That's Cockwhistle Park, upthere--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.'

  'Well, never mind about that,' replied Mr. Sponge; 'let us go on afterthese birds.'

  'Oh, we'll (puff) up to them presently,' observed Jog, labouring away, withhalf a ton of clay at each foo
t, the sun having dispelled the frost whereit 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 whichMr. Sponge had marked the birds. Ponto, whose energetic exertions had beengradually relaxing, until he had settled down to a leisurely hunting-dog,suddenly stood transfixed, with the right foot up, and his gaze settled ona rushy tuft.

  'P-o-o-n-to!' ejaculated Jog, expecting every minute to see him dash at it.'P-o-o-n-to!' repeated he, raising his hand.

  Mr. Sponge stood on the tip-toe of expectation; Jog raised his wide-awakehat from his eyes and advanced cautiously with the engine of destructioncocked. Up started a great hare; bang! went the gun, with the hare none theworse. Bang! went the other barrel, which the hare acknowledged by two orthree stotting bounds and an increase of pace.

  'Well missed!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge.

  Away went Ponto in pursuit.

  'P-o-o-n-to!' shrieked Jog, stamping with rage.

  'I could have wiped your nose,' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, covering the harewith a hedge-stake placed to his shoulder like a gun.

  'Could you?' growled Jog; ''spose you wipe your own,' added he, notunderstanding the meaning of the term.

  Meanwhile, old Ponto went rolling away most energetically, the farther hewent the farther he was left behind, till the hare having scuttled out ofsight, he wheeled about and came leisurely back, as if he was doing allright.

  Jog was very wroth, and vented his anger on the dog, which, he declared,had caused him to miss, vowing, as he rammed away at the charge, that henever missed such a shot before. Mr. Sponge stood eyeing him with a look ofincredulity, thinking that a man who could miss such a shot could missanything. They were now all ready for a fresh start, and Ponto, havingpocketed his objurgation, dashed forward again up the rising ground overwhich the covey had dropped.

  Jog's thick wind was a serious impediment to the expeditious mounting ofthe hill, and the dog seemed aware of his infirmity, and to take pleasurein aggravating him.

  'P-o-o-n-to!' gasped Jog, as he slipped, and scrambled, and toiled, sorelyimpeded by the encumbrance of his gun.

  But P-o-o-n-to heeded him not. He knew his master couldn't catch him, andif he did, that he durstn't flog him.

  'P-o-o-n-to!' gasped Jog again, still louder, catching at a bush to preventhis slipping back. 'T-o-o-h-o-o! P-o-o-n-to!' wheezed he; but the dog justrolled his great stern, and bustled about more actively than ever.

  'Hang ye! but I'd cut you in two if I had you!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge,eyeing his independent proceedings.

  'He's not a bad (puff) dog,' observed Jog, mopping the perspiration fromhis brow.

  '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 independentanimal.

  'T-o-o-h-o-o! P-o-o-n-t-o!' gasped Jog, as he dashed forward on reachinglevel ground more eagerly than ever.

  'P-o-o-n-to! T-o-o-h-o-o!' repeated he, in a still louder tone, with thesame success.

  'You'd better get up to him,' observed Mr. Sponge, 'or he'll spring all thebirds.'

  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 andJog having reached the top of the hill, Mr. Sponge stood still to watch theresult.

  Up whirred four birds out of a patch of gorse behind the dog, allpresenting most beautiful shots. Jog blazed a barrel at them withouttouching a feather, and the report of the gun immediately raised threebrace more into the thick of which he fired with similar success. They allskimmed away unhurt.

  'Well missed!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge again. 'You're what they call a goodshooter but a bad hitter.'

  'You're what they call a (wheeze) fellow,' growled Jog.

  He meant to say 'saucy,' but the word wouldn't rise. He then commencedreloading his gun, and lecturing P-o-o-n-to, who still continued hisexertions, and inwardly anathematizing Mr. Sponge. He wished he had lefthim at home. Then recollecting Mrs. Jog, he thought perhaps he was as wellwhere he was. Still his presence made him shoot worse than usual, and therewas no occasion for that.

  'Let _me_ have a shot now,' said Mr. Sponge.

  'Shot (puff)--shot (wheeze); well, take a shot if you choose,' replied he.

  Just as Mr. Sponge got the gun, up rose the eleventh bird, and he knockedit over.

  MR. SPONGE GIVES PONTO A LESSON]

  '_That's_ the way to do it!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, as the bird fell deadbefore Ponto.

  The excited dog, unused to such descents, snatched it up and ran off. Justas he was getting out of shot, Mr. Sponge fired the other barrel at him,causing him to drop the bird and run yelping and howling away. Jog wasfurious. He stamped, and gasped, and fumed, and wheezed, and seemed like toburst with anger and indignation. Though the dog ran away as hard as hecould lick, Jog insisted that he was mortally wounded, and would die. 'Henever saw so (wheeze) a thing done. He wouldn't have taken twenty poundsfor the dog. No, he wouldn't have taken thirty. Forty wouldn't have boughthim. He was worth fifty of anybody's money,' and so he went on, fuming andadvancing 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, andstruck off home at a much faster pace than he came. Arrived there, he foundthe dog in the kitchen, somewhat sore from the visitation of the shot, butnot sufficiently injured to prevent his enjoying a most liberal plate ofstick-jaw pudding supplied by a general contribution of the servants. Jog'swrath was then turned in another direction, and he blew up for the wasteand extravagance of the act, hinting pretty freely that he knew who it wasthat had set them against it. Altogether he was full of troubles,vexations, and annoyances; and after spending another most disagreeableevening with our friend Sponge, went to bed more determined than ever toget rid of him.