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 button-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-buttoned 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 amusement 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.
[Illustration: 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 buttermilk carcass, 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 amusement 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 illustrate 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
Cockwhistle Park there,' continued he, climbing on to a stile they now
approached, and setting aside the top stone. 'That's Cockwhistle 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.'
'Well, never mind about that,' replied Mr. Sponge; 'let us go on after
these birds.'
'Oh, we'll (puff) up to them presently,' observed Jog, labouring away, with
half a ton of clay at each foot, the sun having dispelled the frost where
it 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 which
Mr. Sponge had marked the birds. Ponto, whose energetic exertions had been
gradually relaxing, until he had settled down to a leisurely hunting-dog,
suddenly stood transfixed, with the right foot up, and his gaze settled on
a 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-awake
hat from his eyes and advanced cautiously with the engine of destruction
cocked. Up started a great hare; bang! went the gun, with the hare none the
worse. Bang! went the other barrel, which the hare acknowledged by two or
three 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 hare
with a hedge-stake placed to his shoulder like a gun.
'Could you?' growled Jog; ''spose you wipe your own,' added he, not
understanding the meaning of the term.
Meanwhile, old Ponto went rolling away most energetically, the farther he
went the farther he was left behind, till the hare having scuttled out of
sight, he wheeled about and came leisurely back, as if he was doing all
right.
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 he
never missed such a shot before. Mr. Sponge stood eyeing him with a look of
incredulity, thinking that a man who could miss such a shot could miss
anything. They were now all ready for a fresh start, and Ponto, having
pocketed his objurgation, dashed forward again up the rising ground over
which the covey had dropped.
Jog's thick wind was a serious impediment to the expeditious mounting of
the hill, and the dog seemed aware of his infirmity, and to take pleasure
in aggravating him.
'P-o-o-n-to!' gasped Jog, as he slipped, and scrambled, and toiled, sorely
impeded by the encumbrance of his gun.
But P-o-o-n-to heeded him not. He knew his master couldn't catch him, and
if he did, that he durstn't flog him.
'P-o-o-n-to!' gasped Jog again, still louder, catching at a bush to prevent
his slipping back. 'T-o-o-h-o-o! P-o-o-n-to!' wheezed he; but the dog just
rolled 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 from
his 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 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. They all
skimmed away unhurt.
'Well missed!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge again. 'You're what they call a good
shooter 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 commenced
reloading his gun, and lecturing P-o-o-n-to, who still continued his
exertions, and inwardly anathematizing Mr. Sponge. He wished he had left
him at home. Then recollecting Mrs. Jog, he thought perhaps he was as well
where he was. Still his presence made him shoot worse than usual, and there
was 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 knocked
it over.
[Illustration: MR. SPONGE GIVES PONTO A LESSON]
'_That's_ the way to do it!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, as the bird fell dead
before Ponto.
The excited dog, unused to such descents, snatched it up and ran off. Just
as 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 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. Altogether he was full of troubles,
vexations, and annoyances; and after spending another most disagreeable
evening with our friend Sponge, went to bed more determined than ever to
get rid of him.