But Mr. Grubb was not long held in suspense; a volley of inelegant
phrases saluted his ears, while the thong of a hunting-whip twisted
playfully about his leg. Finding the play unequal, he wisely gave up the
game--by dropping his bird on one side, and himself on the other; at the
same time reluctantly leaving a portion of his nether garment behind him.

"Here you are!" cried his affectionate friend,--picking him up--"ain't
you cotch'd it finely?"

"Ain't I, that's all?" said the almost breathless Mr. Grubb, "I'm almost
dead."

"Dead!--nonsense--to be sure, you may say as how you're off the hooks!
and precious glad you ought to be."

"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.