“I vish you could!  I’d have a shot at ’em,” replied Mr. Grubb, “but they’re too high for us, as the alderman said ven they brought him a couple o’ partridges vot had been kept overlong!”

“My eye! if there ain’t a summat a moving in that ’ere grass yonder—­cock your eye!” “Cock your gun—­and be quiet,” said Mr. Grubb.  The anxiety of the two sportsmen was immense.  “It’s an hare—­depend on’t—­stoop down—­pint your gun,—­and when I say fire—­fire! there it is—­fire!”

Bang! bang! went the two guns, and a piercing squeak followed the report.

“Ve’ve tickled him,” exclaimed Spriggs, as they ran to pick up the spoil.

“Ve’ve pickled him, rayther,” cried Grubbs, “for by gosh it’s a piggy!”

“Hallo! you chaps, vot are you arter?” inquired a man, popping his head over the intervening hedge.  “Vy, I’m blessed if you ain’t shot von o’ Stubbs’s pigs.”  And leaping the hedge he took the ‘pork’ in his arms, while the sportsmen who had used their arms so destructively now took to their legs for security.  But ignorance of the locality led them into the midst of a village, and the stentorian shouts of the pig-bearer soon bringing a multitude at their heels, Mr. Richard Grubb was arrested in his flight.  Seized fast by the collar, in the grasp of the butcher and constable of the place, all escape was vain.  Spriggs kept a respectful distance.

“Now my fine fellow,” cried he, brandishing his staff, “you ’ither pays for that ’ere pig, or ve’ll fix you in the cage.”

Now the said cage not being a bird-cage, Mr. Richard Grubb could see no prospect of sport in it, and therefore fearfully demanded the price of the sucking innocent, declaring his readiness to ‘shell out.’

Mr. Stubbs, the owner, stepped forward, and valued it at eighteen shillings.

“Vot! eighteen shillings for that ’ere little pig!” exclaimed the astounded sportsman.  “Vy I could buy it in town for seven any day.”

But Mr. Stubbs was obdurate, and declared that he would not ’bate a farden,’ and seeing no remedy, Mr. Richard Grubb was compelled to ’melt a sovereign,’ complaining loudly of the difference between country-fed and town pork!

Shouldering his gun, he joined his companion in arms, amid the jibes and jeers of the grinning rustics.

“Vell, I’m blowed if that ain’t a cooler!” said he.

“Never mind, ve’ve made a hit at any rate,” said the consoling Spriggs, “and ve’ve tried our metal.”

“Yes, it’s tried my metal preciously—­changed a suv’rin to two bob! by jingo!”

“Let’s turn Jews,” said Spriggs, “and make a vow never to touch pork again!”

“Vot’s the use o’ that?”

“Vy, we shall save our bacon in future, to be sure,” replied Spriggs, laughing, and Grubb joining in his merriment, they began to look about them, not for fresh pork, but for fresh game.

“No more shooting in the grass, mind!” said Grubb, “or ve shall have the blades upon us agin for another grunter p’r’aps.  Our next haim must be at birds on the ving!  No more forking out.  Shooting a pig ain’t no lark —­that’s poz!”