It's so weak that no wonder Ponto's sleep isn't disturbed by it.
Of mornings we used to go out shooting.

We had Ponto's own fields to sport over (where we got the landrail), and the non-preserved part of the Hawbuck property: and one evening in a stubble of Ponto's skirting the Carabas woods, we got among some pheasants, and had some real sport.
I shot a hen, I know, greatly to my delight.

'Bag it,' says Ponto, in rather a hurried manner: 'here's somebody coming.' So I pocketed the bird.
'You infernal poaching thieves!' roars out a man from the hedge in the garb of a gamekeeper.

'I wish I could catch you on this side of the hedge.

I'd put a brace of barrels into you, that I would.' 'Curse that Snapper,' says Ponto, moving off; 'he's always watching me like a spy.' 'Carry off the birds, you sneaks, and sell 'em in London,' roars the individual, who it appears was a keeper of Lord Carabas.