“Gracious me!  Spriggs, don’t joke; it might ha’ bin werry serious,” said Mr. Grubb, with a most melancholy shake of the head:—­“Do let’s get out o’ this wile place.”

“Vy, vat the dickins!” exclaimed Spriggs, “you ain’t sewed up yet, are you?”

“No,” replied Grubb, forcing a smile in spite of himself, “I vish I vos, Spriggs; for I ’ve got a terrible rent here!” delicately indicating the position of the fracture.

And hereupon the two friends resolving to make no further attempt at bush-ranging, made as precipitate a retreat as the tangled nature of the preserve permitted.

CHAPTER IV.

Shooting a Bird, and putting Shot into a Calf!

“On’y think ven ve thought o’ getting into a preserve—­that ve got into a pickle,” said Sprigg, still chuckling over their last adventure.

“Hush!” cried Grubb, laying his hand upon his arm—­“see that bird hopping there?”

“Ve’ll soon make him hop the twig, and no mistake,” remarked Spriggs.

“There he goes into the ’edge to get his dinner, I s’pose.”

“Looking for a ’edge-stake, I dare say,” said the facetious Spriggs.

“Now for it!” cried Grubb! “pitch into him!” and drawing his trigger he accidentally knocked off the bird, while Spriggs discharged the contents of his gun through the hedge.

“Hit summat at last!” exclaimed the delighted Grubb, scampering towards the thorny barrier, and clambering up, he peeped into an adjoining garden.

“Will you have the goodness to hand me that little bird I’ve just shot off your ’edge,” said he to a gardener, who was leaning on his spade and holding his right leg in his hand.

“You fool,” cried the horticulturist, “you’ve done a precious job—­You’ve shot me right in the leg—­O dear!  O dear! how it pains!”

“I’m werry sorry—­take the bird for your pains,” replied Grubb, and apprehending another pig in a poke, he bobbed down and retreated as fast as his legs could carry him.

“Vot’s frightened you?” demanded Spriggs, trotting off beside his chum, “You ain’t done nothing, have you?”

“On’y shot a man, that’s all.”

“The devil!”

“It’s true—­and there’ll be the devil to pay if ve’re cotched, I can tell you—­’Vy the gardener vill swear as it’s a reg’lar plant!—­and there von’t be no damages at all, if so be he says he can’t do no work, and is obleeged to keep his bed—­so mizzle!” With the imaginary noises of a hot pursuit at their heels, they leaped hedge, ditch, and style without daring to cast a look behind them—­and it was not until they had put two good miles of cultivated land between them and the spot of their unfortunate exploit that they ventured to wheel about and breathe again.

“Vell, if this ’ere ain’t a rum go!”—­said Spriggs—­“in four shots—­ve’ve killed a pig—­knocked the life out o’ one dicky-bird—­and put a whole charge into a calf.  Vy, if ve go on at this rate we shall certainly be taken up and get a setting down in the twinkling of a bed-post!”