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      The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Life of a Foxhound, by John Mills.
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<body>
<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 52307 ***</div>

<p class="center larger">THE<br />
LIFE OF A<br />
FOXHOUND.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;" id="frontispiece">
<img src="images/illus1.jpg" width="600" height="400" alt="" />
<p class="caption">THE MEET.</p>
</div>

<hr class="chap" />

<p class="titlepage">THE<br />
LIFE OF A<br />
<span class="larger">FOXHOUND.</span></p>

<p class="titlepage">BY<br />
<span class="larger">JOHN MILLS,</span><br />
<span class="smaller">AUTHOR OF “THE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN,” “THE LIFE OF A<br />
RACEHORSE,” ETC.</span></p>

<hr class="r15" />

<p class="center">THE FIFTH EDITION,<br />
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY<br />
<span class="larger">JOHN LEECH.</span></p>

<hr class="r15" />

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 100px;">
<img src="images/publisher.jpg" width="100" height="137" alt="PHILIP ALLAN (publisher's mark)" />
</div>

<p class="titlepage">LONDON<br />
<span class="larger">PHILIP ALLAN &amp; CO.</span><br />
QUALITY COURT, CHANCERY LANE</p>

<table summary="editions" class="editions">
  <tr>
    <td>First Edition</td><td class="tdr">1848</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Second Edition</td><td class="tdr">1861</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Third Edition</td><td class="tdr">1892</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Fourth Edition</td><td class="tdr">1910</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Fifth Edition</td><td class="tdr">1921</td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p class="titlepage smaller">Printed by <span class="smcap">Whitehead Bros., Wolverhampton</span>.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<h2>TO<br />
HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS<br />
THE PRINCE OF WALES<br />
K.G., G.M.M.G., G.M.B.E., M.C., &amp;c.</h2>

<p class="noindent">SIR,</p>

<p>That fox-hunting is an ancient and honourable
pastime all will agree: ancient in that the fox
was held to be a beast of venery by our Anglo-Saxon
ancestors, honourable because it is a sport
that has ever been associated with those excellent
qualities of manhood which are the prerogative of
our race. That it is a royal pastime is equally
plain: for hunting has been regarded, in all ages,
as the chief sport of Kings and Princes. Indeed
it is due principally to the encouragement and
protection accorded to it by the Royal House of
England that the noble sport of fox-hunting is in
so flourishing a condition to-day. And so it is
both fitting and proper, Sir, that this, the fifth
edition of a notable contribution to our sporting
literature, should be dedicated to you who uphold
so admirably the traditions of British sport.</p>

<p class="letter-sig">Your Royal Highness’s<br />
humble, obedient servant,</p>

<p class="right">THE EDITOR.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<h2>PREFACE.</h2>

<p>Trimbush told his story&mdash;the story of his
life&mdash;long ago, and a generation of sportsmen
having, probably, been succeeded by another
since then, the autobiography of that old and
sagacious hound is now presented to the notice
of those who may have been denied the opportunity
of profiting either by his sage advice or
experience.</p>

<p>It will be conceded that, whatever egotism
taints his arguments, Trimbush was “a
shrewd philosopher, having a why for every
wherefore.” He spoke of men and foxes as
he found them; and if occasionally somewhat
too severe upon the commissions and omissions
of the former, he was equally ready, at all
times, to show his teeth to the latter.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<h2>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.</h2>

<table summary="List of illustrations">
  <tr>
    <td><span class="smcap">The Meet</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#frontispiece"><i>Frontispiece</i></a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td><span class="smcap">“Head and Hands will beat Heels”</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_66">66</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td><span class="smcap">A Curious Finish</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_76">76</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td><span class="smcap">“Hold Har-r-r-d!”</span></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_100">100</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>

<hr class="chap" />

<h2>CONTENTS.</h2>

<table summary="Contents">
  <tr>
    <td>CHAPTER.</td><td class="tdr">PAGE.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td><a href="#CHAPTER_I">I.</a></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td><a href="#CHAPTER_II">II.</a></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_16">16</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td><a href="#CHAPTER_III">III.</a></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_39">39</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">IV.</a></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_51">51</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td><a href="#CHAPTER_V">V.</a></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_67">67</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">VI.</a></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_79">79</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">VII.</a></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_91">91</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">VIII.</a></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_102">102</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">IX.</a></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_111">111</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td><a href="#CHAPTER_X">X.</a></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_121">121</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">XI.</a></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_139">139</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">XII.</a></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_147">147</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">XIII.</a></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_158">158</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">XIV.</a></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_172">172</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">XV.</a></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_182">182</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">XVI.</a></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_193">193</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p>

<h1>THE LIFE OF A FOXHOUND.</h1>

<h2 id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.</h2>

<p>I had the excellent fortune, begins Ringwood’s
memoir, to be put at walk at a
farm-house, where I enjoyed the treatment
observed to all the animals under the care and
protection of the farmer and his wife&mdash;that
of universal kindness. Sweet milk, meal,
and broth were my provisions; and I never
was without a clean, dry, and warm bed.
Basking in the sun, playing with the
shepherd’s dog, following the men at work,
and in a complete state of perfect freedom,
my early puppyhood passed. I mention these<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span>
apparently trifling circumstances, because so
much depends, as will be shown hereafter,
upon the way in which we are brought up.
I was one of a litter of five, consisting of three
brothers and two sisters, and each had been
placed at a separate walk; so that, until we
were sent to the kennel to be drafted, we
had not seen each other since the day of
separation.</p>

<p>Sorry as I was to leave my kind benefactors,
still I felt no small degree of pride as, on a
bright, sunny, spring morning, I was led into
a court of the kennel, and met with greater
admiration from the huntsmen and whips
than any other of the young entry therein
assembled, consisting of eleven couples and a
half.</p>

<p>“Upon my word,” said the huntsman,
looking at me carefully from head to stern,
“I don’t think that I ever saw such a beauty
in my life. Such deep quarters, straight
legs, round feet, and broad back are not to be
met with every day, mind ye.”</p>

<p>“Look at them shoulders and elbows too,”
rejoined the first whip.</p>

<p>“And what a muzzle!” returned the
second.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span></p>

<p>“Bless’d if he ain’t perfect symmetry!”
echoed the feeder, after a long and silent gaze.</p>

<p>“I <em>do</em> think he is,” added the huntsman,
emphatically. “Or if he isn’t, <em>I</em> can’t see a
bad point in him.”</p>

<p>“That shows what the walk will do,” said
the feeder, an old grey-headed man, pointing
to four of our company. “Nobody would
believe those were of the same litter, didn’t
they know it.”</p>

<p>But for this I should not have recognised
my brothers and sisters, who certainly bore a
very different appearance from that given of
me by the huntsman. As we appeared
strangers to each other, I at once made myself
known, and inquired after their health and
treatment since we last met.</p>

<p>“Oh,” replied one of my brothers,
snappishly, “I was sent to the village ale-house,
where I had to pick up my own living,
and got more kicks than good will. I was
always in somebody’s way, try as I did to
keep out of it; and the consequence is, I can’t
run a mile without feeling as if my back’s
broken. We don’t always die on the day we
are killed,” continued he.</p>

<p>“As for me,” said my other fraternal<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span>
relative&mdash;a mangy, out-of-the-elbow, shy-looking,
down-cast hound&mdash;“I was tied up
from one month’s end to another at a
butcher’s shop, with nothing to eat but the
offal from the slaughter-house. I never,
scarcely, was let loose, except to fight with
one of the bull-dogs or terriers chained in the
yard with me; but as I was always over-matched
when I fought, and got well thrashed
when I refused, the end was the same in
either case. The best part of a hound,”
continued he, “as the best part of a horse,
goes in at the mouth; and as none, since I was
a sucker, has gone into mine, I suppose I must
consider myself no better than I should be;
and I fear,” concluded he, with a sorrowful
expression, “not so good.”</p>

<p>“Let me hope that my sisters were more
fortunate,” said I.</p>

<p>“We were together in the same village,”
replied one, “although at different homes. I
was at the saddler’s and my sister at the
miller’s, and both shared the common hardships
of being continually worried by a set of
idle boys. Stoned, hallooed at, kettles tied to
our tails, and all kinds of tricks were played
upon us. Whenever anything eatable was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span>
missed or stolen, it was invariably laid to our
charge; so that we could not even put our
heads into a doorway without having a stick
or a broom flung at us. Day after day this
was our treatment, and although we did not
suffer from a scarcity of food, yet from being
obliged to shift for ourselves in getting beds
where we could find them, sometimes cold,
sometimes wet, and no system being observed
in either our meals or lodgings, we were
seldom without lameness or ill-health of one
kind or other.”</p>

<p>My sister was about giving the further
details of their grievances, when the second
whip, a fine, young, athletic man, interrupted
her narration by observing that “he would
draft all the litter but me.”</p>

<p>“No, no,” returned the feeder, shaking
his head. “You’ll not find the Squire do
that: we must keep ’em for their blood.”</p>

<p>“Come,” added the huntsman, turning
upon his heel, “they’re all in now, and to-morrow
will show what are to be entered.
We’ve no voice in the matter.”</p>

<p>“And don’t want to have,” rejoined the
feeder, “with such a master as the Squire is.”</p>

<p>Soon after my entry I was taken under the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span>
protection of an old hound called Trimbush,
and the favourite one in the pack. He had
been hunted six seasons, and, as may be
supposed, was awake to every wrinkle.</p>

<p>“Hounds, like men,” said he, one day, as
we stretched ourselves together in the shade of
a large chestnut-tree overhanging the court,
“should first learn their duties, and then
perform them. Now, young-un, I’ve taken a
fancy to you,” continued he, giving me a
playful flip with the tip of his stern; “and if
you follow my advice you will save yourself
many a stinging cut from our Whip’s double-thong.
He hits terribly hard, I assure ye.”</p>

<p>“Does he?” replied I, believing, in my
innocence, that such a good-tempered, laughing
fellow would scarcely brush a fly from our
hackles.</p>

<p>“So you’ll say,” continued my friend,
“when you’ve tasted it.”</p>

<p>“But I mean to avoid flogging,” I
rejoined, “by obeying orders.”</p>

<p>“Pooh, pooh,” returned Trimbush, testily.
“Intentions are good enough; but a fig for
orders when the blood’s up! I don’t always
obey them myself, old as I am. However, as
you haven’t yet viewed a fox, it’s no use my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span>
mentioning anything about the field. We
shall begin cub-hunting in a few weeks, and
then you will get a little insight as to what
you are to do there. In the meantime I’ll cut
some notches in your memory regarding
kennel discipline, and relate a few
peculiarities concerning your companions.”</p>

<p>“Thank you,” said I to the friendly offer.</p>

<p>“In the first place I should tell you,” began
Trimbush, “that the best step to take at the
outset is to endeavour to become a favourite
with those in authority over you. This is
easily acquired, by doing that which you are
told cheerfully, and without the trouble of
compulsion being exercised. For it’s one
thing to disobey an order when hunting, and
quite another in the kennel. We all love our
huntsman, Will Sykes; but he is very strict,
and never allows a fault to pass without a rate
or the thong being applied. When called,
walk up to him with your ears thrown back
smilingly, and carry your stern high and
proudly. Will can’t bear a hound to look like
a sneak. Don’t be quarrelsome at feeding
time, or indeed at any other; for although
family differences will occasionally arise over
the meal and broth, never be among the first to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span>
cause them. I am far from meaning by this
that you are not to maintain your rights; on
the contrary, you, like everything that lives,
not only possess them, but are bound, in self-defence,
to support them. There is as much
danger, if not more, in always giving way to
the domineering of tyrants as in acting the
tyrant yourself; although,” continued Trimbush,
with a growl at the reminiscence, “the
results proved the same here not more than
three seasons since.”</p>

<p>“How was that?” inquired I.</p>

<p>“Why,” replied he, “in all packs there is
a master hound, who lords it over the rest just
as he pleases. Now it frequently happens that
this master becomes a regular bully, and so
worries and torments his companions, that
there is no living in comfort with him. We
had a governor of this kind three years ago,
and what do you think we did?”</p>

<p>“Can’t say,” rejoined I.</p>

<p>“Killed and ate him,” returned Trimbush,
with no more concern than if speaking of the
death of a rabbit.</p>

<p>“Killed and ate him!” repeated I,
horrified.</p>

<p>“Ay,” rejoined he, “marrow, bones, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span>
all, with the exception of his head.”<a name="FNanchor_1" id="FNanchor_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p>

<div class="footnotes">
<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1" id="Footnote_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> This took place some years since in Mr. Conyer’s
kennel, at Copthall, Essex.</p>
</div>
</div>

<p>“Dog eat dog!” I exclaimed, scarcely
believing the statement to be true.</p>

<p>“It’s not an every-day occurrence,” coolly
replied Trimbush; “but what I’ve told ye is
by no means a solitary instance, as you shall
learn. There was a shy, broken-spirited
puppy entered the same season with me, and
whenever any of us began a bit of fun with
him, he’d shriek and howl ‘pen-an-ink’ just
as if he was being murdered. This, of
course, led every one to take advantage, and
the poor devil never had any peace of mind or
body. One day, however, when a few of us
had pinned him in a corner of the court, and
were baiting him for sport, who should step in
but Ned Adams, the second whip. How he
paid us off, to be sure! Not one escaped but
with every bone in his body aching fit to
split.”</p>

<p>“But it served all of you right,”
interrupted I.</p>

<p>“Perhaps it did,” rejoined Trimbush;
“but we thought otherwise, and no sooner
had Ned turned his back than we commenced<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span>
making a retaliation upon the cur who had
caused us such a drubbing. We had scarcely
begun, however, when Ned again made his
unwelcome appearance, and flogged us until
every stroke from his double-thong seemed to
soak right through our bodies. Before the
cock gave notice of the coming day,” continued
Trimbush, significantly, “Tricksy&mdash;for
that was the name of the hound&mdash;was disposed
of so as to leave no trace behind.”</p>

<p>“Eaten!” I ejaculated.</p>

<p>“We didn’t leave,” replied my friend
deliberately, and dropping his words like peas
from his jaws, “even his <em>head</em>.”</p>

<p>“But why was this done?” inquired I.</p>

<p>“The simplicity of infancy is truly refreshing!”
observed Trimbush. “There’s
an adage, that a dead dog <em>may</em> tell how he was
killed,” continued he; “but an <em>eaten</em> one
never can. Do you comprehend?”</p>

<p>“Perfectly,” responded I.</p>

<p>“From what I have said,” he resumed,
“you must now be aware of the policy of
neither being overbearing to your fellows, nor
too tame or submissive to them. I am now
master here, and this is the rule I both teach
and observe.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span></p>

<p>“And a very good one too,” I remarked;
“but don’t let me interrupt you. Pray proceed.”</p>

<p>“You would find out in time,” resumed
Trimbush, “but may as well profit by my
experience, and learn it at once, that most
men who go with us to the covert-side know
little about hunting and less about hounds.
So long as their patience is not cramped with
drawing blanks, and we go the pace with
heads up and sterns down, they are satisfied,
and take little further interest in us. Not one
in fifty can tell even what the points of a
hound are; and as for understanding anything
about our habits and dispositions, they
think that we are as much alike as cherries
upon the same stalk. So far, however, from
that being the case, we differ from each other
in every respect as much as man to man
engaged in the same pursuit, and frequently
inherit the peculiarities of our fathers and
mothers, as they do. You see that black-and-tan
hound basking in the sun?”</p>

<p>“Yes.”</p>

<p>“That’s Valentine. Now, his father,
who was killed from a kick three years ago,
always trotted to and from kennel just under<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span>
the huntsman’s off stirrup, and Valentine
does precisely the same. There’s Graceful, a
bitch in the next court&mdash;she invariably is the
first home and the last to covert, and her
mother did the like before her.”</p>

<p>“That appears to be innate laziness,” I
observed.</p>

<p>“No,” replied Trimbush. “So far from
that being the case, there never were better
working hounds on earth.”</p>

<p>“Then how do you account for it?”
inquired I.</p>

<p>“There are many things,” returned Trimbush,
with the air of a philosopher, “as clear
to our vision as the sunshine at noon, and yet
their causes are hid in impenetrable darkness.
I cannot,” continued he, “tell why Graceful
and Valentine should inherit the eccentricities
of their parents, but only see that they do
so.”</p>

<p>“Are these the only two instances coming
under your observation?” I asked.</p>

<p>“By no means,” replied my companion.
“I could recite a dozen others of a similar
nature, but I fear they might prove wearisome.
You see that badger-pied hound
amusing himself by snapping at the flies<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span>
buzzing about him? Well, he is a nephew of
mine, and makes it a rule, as his father did,
to carry home whatever part of the varmint
that falls to his share, and never eats it, unless
there is a great chance of its being dragged
away from him, till he gets to the kennel
door.”</p>

<p>“Perhaps he wishes to show everybody on
the road that he had a hand in the breaking
up,” said I.</p>

<p>“I think vanity has something to do with
it,” replied my friend; “but if so, he inherits
the pride from his sire, just as those
peculiarities I have named are inborn in
others.”</p>

<p>“I suppose, if these habits descend from
parent to child,” I observed, “that vices are
also inheritable.”</p>

<p>“Decidedly,” replied Trimbush, beginning
to evince symptoms of drowsiness. “Rioting,
skirting, babbling, and all such-like faults,
are inheritable, and as much so as the
defective points in symmetry.”</p>

<p>“It appears to me somewhat harsh, then,”
rejoined I, “to punish us for them.”</p>

<p>“That’s a matter,” added Trimbush, “I
must leave to be decided between you and Ned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span>
Adams;” and then turning upon his side he
closed his eyes, and a deep, low snore quickly
proclaimed him to be in the land of shadowy
dreams.</p>

<p>I found kennel life at first very tedious, and
soon began to pine for the farm-house, liberty,
and a romp with the shaggy old shepherd’s
dog. I became so home-sick at length, that
had the opportunity offered, I should have run
away; but when taken for exercise, I was
always coupled with a companion, and no
chance given of an escape from my thraldom.
Notwithstanding the kindness of the feeder,
in offering me food twice, and occasionally
even three times a day, I got thinner and
thinner, and instead of the sleek and bright
coat which I had upon leaving my walk, my
hackles now began to stare and to look little
less rough than a badger’s skin. Trimbush,
too, essayed to relieve me from my load of
misery, and recounted many a tale of interest
to wean me from gloomy reflections; but it was
all to no purpose. I could not forget the
pleasures of home.</p>

<p>“He’ll be right enough in a day or two,”
said the huntsman to an expression of regret
from the feeder at my altered appearance.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span>
“Let him go cub-hunting once, and he will
not sulk another hour.”</p>

<p>“I believe ye,” rejoined the feeder.
“There’s too good blood in him for that,
after he has winded a fox.”</p>

<p>“Well, then,” added the huntsman, “to-morrow
at daylight we draw Wiverton Gorse;
and if it does not hold a litter, it will be the
first time since my servitude&mdash;a matter of
twenty-five years and more.”</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span></p>

<h2 id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.</h2>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“But, look! the morn, in russet mantle clad,</div>
<div class="verse">Walks o’er the dew of yon high eastern hill.”</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>The dew fell, dropping from leaf to leaf,
and hung on the greensward in an endless
succession of glistening gems. The mist
floated on a light breeze, scarcely strong
enough to waft the wet spider’s film meshed
on sprig, and bough, and hawthorn spray.
Mushrooms marked the rings where the elves
of the night had held their orgies, and the
fairy’s light&mdash;the glowworm’s lamp&mdash;still
shone faintly on the moss-bank. Like a bride,
veiled but not hidden, the young, gay morning
broke, with a smile, the slumbering hours.
Drooping flowers raised their petals, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span>
folded blossoms opened to her kiss. Wild and
happy birds heralded her coming, and all
things of the day welcomed her.</p>

<p>At daybreak we were on our road to
Wiverton Gorse, accompanied by Will Sykes,
the huntsman, Tom Holt and Ned Adams, the
assistant whippers-in. I could not suppress
the delight I felt in going to cover; and,
instead of the homesick and sullen feeling
which I had had for a length of time, I was
ready to jump out of my skin with spirits.</p>

<p>“Pray, keep quiet!” said Trimbush, in a
reproving tone, as I galloped to his side, and
laid hold of one of his ears, by way of an invitation
to a romp. “Pray, keep quiet!”
repeated he; “you can’t be too steady in
going to cover. Nurse your strength,” he
continued, “until it’s wanted.”</p>

<p>“I could race for thirty miles this morning,
without a check!” replied I, boastfully.</p>

<p>“Pooh, pooh!” rejoined Trimbush;
“that’s the way with you young-uns&mdash;all
brag and self-conceit; and when it comes to
hard running, where are ye in a brace of
shakes? Somewhat in this form,” continued
he, hanging down his head, with outstretched
tongue and drooping stern.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span></p>

<p>I laughed heartily at Trimbush’s acting a
fagged and beaten hound; and, although I
had not seen one at the time, I subsequently
learned that it was a very faithful representation.</p>

<p>“One would think, from that puppy’s
gambolsome larking,” observed the huntsman,
pointing to me, “that he knows what he’s
going about.”</p>

<p>“Perhaps he do,” sagely returned Tom
Holt.</p>

<p>“How the devil should he?” rejoined
Will Sykes. “Isn’t this his first day’s cub-hunting?”</p>

<p>“Yes,” added the first whip. “But don’t
you think them dumb animals have a language
of their own? I’m blest if they don’t almost
talk to us sometimes.”</p>

<p>“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Will Sykes.
“You’re a pretty kind of a Christian, Tom.
I suppose, by-an’-bye, you’ll say they sing
hymns.”</p>

<p>“I don’t see why they shouldn’t,” replied
the imperturbable Tom Holt. “At least,”
continued he, “if they don’t, they’re a sight
more sensible than many of those that do.”</p>

<p>“Come, come,” said the huntsman, in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span>
correcting tone; “try back, Tom. We shall
have stones fall from the clouds presently,
if you go on in that way.”</p>

<p>“It wouldn’t surprise me if they did,”
replied the whipper-in, as cool as a cucumber.
“When so many folk, both gentle an’ simple,
are building castles in the air, it’s nothing
but reasonable that some o’ the stones should
tumble.”</p>

<p>“Ca-a-pital!” added Will Sykes admiringly.
“I like a sharp and ready tongue.
But you don’t really mean to say, Tom, that
you think hounds have a way of speaking to
one another?”</p>

<p>“Yes, I do,” replied the whipper-in; “and
have no doubt of the fact. They have the
sense,” continued he, “to understand what
we say <em>to</em> them, and a great deal, in my
opinion, of what we say <em>of</em> them; and it’s
quite as natural, if not more so, that they
should have a language of their own, as it is
for them to comprehend a foreign one.”</p>

<p>“Your notions are queer ones, Tom,”
observed the huntsman. “And you’d have
me believe, I suppose, that Ringwood there
has been <em>told</em> what he’s going to do?”</p>

<p>“Nothing more likely,” replied Tom Holt.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span></p>

<p>We were now on the verge of Wiverton
Gorse&mdash;an extensive brake of some forty acres
of high but not thick furze, except in patches
where it had been lately cut.</p>

<p>“Don’t let a hound get away,” said the
huntsman. “We’ll rattle the covers well;
but be sure and hold the hounds in.”</p>

<p>At this moment Bluecap and Dauntless
made an attempt to sneak away; and, before
getting a rate from Ned Adams, found his
double thong cracking round their loins.</p>

<p>“That’s for not waiting orders,” observed
Trimbush.</p>

<p>“Cover-hoik! cover-hoik!” hallooed the
huntsman; “Elooin-hoik!” and into the
brake we crashed like a flash of lightning.</p>

<p>“That’s the dash of the old blood!” said
the huntsman, as I rushed through the gorse
with the ambitious eagerness to find. “I’d
bet a season’s capping,” continued he, “that
he takes as kindly to work as a baby does to
sucking.”</p>

<p>“You’d better keep by me,” observed
Trimbush, “and learn a little of your
business, instead of tearing your eyes out in
that blundering, stupid manner. One would
think, if you were not a greenhorn of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span>
puppy, that a dying fox stood before ye,
instead of not having so much as found one.”</p>

<p>But I was in no humour to be dictated to;
and in spite of lacerating the corners of my
eyes, ears and stern, I flew right and left
through the furze, in the hope of being the
first to challenge. In pressing through a
thick patch, I scented that which I instantly
concluded must be a fox; and, immediately
afterwards catching a glimpse of something
spring across a ride, I threw up my head,
and made the cover echo as I dashed along the
line. I was much surprised, however, that
none of the old hounds joined me, and that,
with the exception of three or four of the
same age as myself, who merely gave tongue
because I did, no response or cheer was given
to my efforts.</p>

<p>In a few seconds we found ourselves
through the brake at the farthest corner up
wind, and in close proximity to the dreaded
presence of Ned Adams.</p>

<p>“War hare, puppy!” hallooed he, riding
at me, and cracking his heavy whip. “War
hare! war hare! Hark back! hark back!”</p>

<p>Learning that I had committed an error, I
was not slow to obey the caution, by getting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span>
out of the reach of the thong; although, as I
afterwards discovered, there was no fear of
being punished for a fault until it had been
repeated. Scarcely had I again turned into
the brake, when my friend Trimbush gave a
deep-toned note, announcing that a fox was
afoot.</p>

<p>“Hoik to Trimbush!” hallooed the huntsman&mdash;“Hoik
to Trimbush!” and, as a
bunch of hounds took up the cry, he added,
“Hoik together, hoik!”</p>

<p>Galloping on the line where three or four
couple of the knowing ones were feathering
their sterns and ringing their music, I for
the first time winded a fox. Anxious to
distinguish myself, I at once began making
more din about it than all the old hounds put
together.</p>

<p>“Don’t jingle your tongue as if you were
currant-jelly hunting,” said Trimbush, contemptuously,
as I joined his side. “A
workman,” continued he, “never wastes his
breath with too much whistling.”</p>

<p>Feeling that there was truth in his chiding,
I changed my tone, and gave tongue only
when my friend did.</p>

<p>“That’s right,” remarked Trimbush,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span>
flattered at my observing his dictate: “now
you sound like business.”</p>

<p>“Have at him!” hallooed Will Sykes.
“Yoo-oo-it, hoik!”</p>

<p>Hounds were now hunting in every
direction of the cover; and it was evident
that several foxes were before them.</p>

<p>“The vixen and the whole litter are
a-foot!” I overheard the first whip say.</p>

<p>“Did you view her?” inquired Will Sykes.</p>

<p>“Yes!” was the reply; “and she’s gone
away.”</p>

<p>“Then there’s a dog-fox behind,” rejoined
the huntsman.</p>

<p>“I thought so,” quietly observed Trimbush,
stooping his muzzle to the ground, and
drawing, with infinite gratification to his
olfactory nerves. “I thought so,” repeated
he: “a vixen, except she’s barren, never
carries such a scent as that.”</p>

<p>“You know the difference, then?”
returned I.</p>

<p>“Ay,” rejoined Trimbush; “as well as if
I had helped to break her up. And so will
you in a couple of seasons.”</p>

<p>“But how?” asked I.</p>

<p>“By experience,” replied my companion;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span>
“and from the natural aversion most animals
have to destroy anything with or about to
have young. But come,” he continued, “this
is no time for talking, although we shall be
stopped from getting away if they can get
to our heads in time. However, keep close
to me, and I’ll try to get a bat by ourselves
in spite of ’em.”</p>

<p>“Who-whoop,” hallooed the huntsman.</p>

<p>“They’ve chopped a cub,” said Trimbush.
“Now’s our time, if Ned Adams doesn’t
head him back.”</p>

<p>A succession of loud cracks from a whip
followed; but no halloo was given.</p>

<p>“He’s gone away,” remarked Trimbush,
with glee; “and we’ll be on good terms with
him. Stick to me.”</p>

<p>Keeping close to my companion’s stern, I
ran stride and stride with him through the
brake until we came to a corner of the cover
where the fox we were hunting broke away.</p>

<p>“Now then,” said Trimbush cheerily; “up
with your head and down with your stern.
Come along, the scent’s a burning one.”</p>

<p>The instant that Trimbush was free of the
cover, he laid himself upon the line, and raced
like a greyhound; I following in his wake.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span>
Hearing the heavy stride of a horse in our
rear, I turned my head to see who was
following.</p>

<p>“Take no notice,” said the old hound:
“If Ned gets to our heads&mdash;and he’ll prick
blood for it, I’ll be sworn&mdash;the sport’s all
over with us.”</p>

<p>“What the deuce does he want to stop us
for?” inquired I.</p>

<p>“Pooh,” rejoined Trimbush. “Rattle on.”</p>

<p>The second whip came spurring on with the
evident desire of reaching us; but the faster
he came, the faster we flew.</p>

<p>“Ha, ha!” laughed Trimbush; “we’ll
give ye a sob for it.”</p>

<p>Along two open grass fields we led the
whipper-in; and then, for more than a mile,
up a long, narrow lane, flanked by two high
banks.</p>

<p>“I haven’t carried a bit of scent since we
left the turf,” observed I.</p>

<p>“Nor I either,” replied my companion.</p>

<p>“Then what’s the use of flashing on in this
way?” I asked.</p>

<p>“You’ve no cunning in ye yet,” replied
Trimbush, “or you wouldn’t ask such a
simple question. However, so much the better.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span>
Craft in the young is unwholesome; while, if
the old don’t possess some, they have lived
too long unprofitably. Now, we have no time
to stop, and if we had we could do nothing
with the scent on this hard, dry road: but
having found our fox <em>up</em> wind, and as he
turned <em>down</em> upon breaking cover, I know
that he will <em>not</em> turn again. We have, therefore,
but to make our own cast good one way;
and then, in the event of not being able to hit
it off, to try the other to be certain of getting
on the line&mdash;unless, indeed, he should chance
to head short back, which not one fox out of a
hundred will do, unless it is to die.”</p>

<p>“But we shall have no chance of making a
cast,” said I, “with Ned at our sterns.”</p>

<p>“I know the point he’s making for,”
returned my friend; “and if we once get clear
of this everlasting lane on to the scrubs, I’ll
forgive Ned if he stops us this time. I <em>do</em>
like,” continued he, “a run o’ this kind.
There’s a spice about anything stolen.”</p>

<p>Upon coming to a sudden turn in the road,
Trimbush all but stood still at seeing a flock of
sheep in our way; who, upon our nearing
them, began scampering before us, and
became wedged together like one solid body.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span></p>

<p>“The devil!” exclaimed my companion,
making an ineffectual effort to reach the edge
of the steep bank, and reeling almost over in
the attempt. “No matter,” continued he,
as springing upon his feet, and rushing
forwards, he galloped along the backs of the
scared flock; and, following his example, we
cleared the impediment, and found ourselves
on the right side of a great obstacle to our
pursuer, Ned Adams.</p>

<p>“Now we’re all right,” said Trimbush,
exultingly; “and we shall have it to ourselves
in spite of ’em.”</p>

<p>The long twisting and twining lane led on
to an open heath or sheep-walk, covered here
and there with patches of broom, furze, and
dwarf blackberry bushes.</p>

<p>“We’ll first try down wind to the right,”
said Trimbush; “for although Will Sykes
very often takes us just the other way, so as
to make sure the varmint hasn’t given us the
artful dodge by slipping back on his foil, it’s
a bad cast except with a beaten fox, and
generally widens the distance between us and
him. Always,” continued the old hound,
stooping his muzzle to the ground as he
trotted cautiously along, “try the way first<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span>
you think he’s gone; and, having made that
good, it’s quite time enough to take the
other.”</p>

<p>On coming to some sloping, moist ground,
Trimbush stopped, and, feathering for a
moment, threw up his head and made the air
ring with melody as he hit off the scent again.</p>

<p>“We are all right,” said he, exultingly.
“We’ll either kill or burst him to earth.”</p>

<p>I could now wind the varmint with my
head stretched in the air; and it was as easy
hunting as a bagman sprinkled with aniseed.</p>

<p>“There’s nothing like break-o’-day hunting,”
observed my companion: “the ground
is cool and unstained; and there are no people
about. Those terrible enemies to our sport,
shepherd’s dogs, too, are not often in the way;
and the hundred-and-one difficulties to be
picked through at noon removed.”</p>

<p>“But we are not thrown off generally at
this hour, are we?” inquired I.</p>

<p>“Never,” replied my friend, “except at
this season. In times gone by,” continued
he, “as I have heard tell, the meet used to be
before cock-crow; and often hounds would be
waiting at the cover-side for daylight. But
fox-hunting, like most other things, has<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span>
undergone a great change; and instead of
the old slow-and-sure system of occupying
minutes to find and hours to kill, we are now,
taking the season through, hours finding, and
minutes killing.”</p>

<p>“Which afforded most sport, do you
think?” inquired I.</p>

<p>“It’s difficult to say,” returned Trimbush.
“Unless we go the pace, men now
consider that there is no sport whatever; but
some years since, the merits of a good hunting
run had nothing to do with the time in which
it was done, like a horse-race. With a cold
scent, stained ground, and an unruly field&mdash;heading
the fox, riding over us, and hallooing
at everything from a cow’s tail to a jackdaw&mdash;we
frequently pick through, and even
hold it on with extraordinary keenness; but
seldom, indeed, do we get any credit for our
pains. If, however, the scent is breast high&mdash;as
it is this morning, or I couldn’t talk to
you&mdash;and we fly along without a check, for
fifteen or twenty minutes, with blood for the
finish, then there is no end to the praise, and
we receive nothing but commendation and
renown. Not that <em>I</em> am an advocate for slow
hunting:&mdash;for the enjoyment of sport, there<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span>
must be a dash, spirit, and fire; and in creeping
along at snail’s speed there can be neither
one nor the other. But what I wish our
admirers and critics to understand is, that a
fast run by no means shows our qualities, but
a slow one may do so; and often that both
our praise and our censure are equally
unmerited.”</p>

<p>“Still,” said I, beginning to pant for wind
as we rattled up a steep hill, with the scent
improving, if possible, at every stride, “as
the old exploded system wanted that dash and
spirit which, you say, are indispensable for
first-rate sport, there can be no doubt of the
present one being the most desirable.”</p>

<p>“On the whole I think so,” rejoined my
companion; “but that may be,” he continued,
“from not being practically acquainted with
any other. At the same time, ‘honour to
those to whom honour is due;’ and my belief is
that our ancestors, the line hunters, <em>hunted</em>
their fox as well, if not better, than we who
now <em>race</em> him down.”</p>

<p>“Your judgment’s an impartial one,”
returned I.</p>

<p>“Good or bad, better or worse,” resumed
Trimbush, “it’s no use arguing about the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span>
matter: ’tis the pace now that’s wanted, and
will be had. If we can’t hunt, we must race;
and the moment we’re at fault you’ll hear a
dozen tongues holloa:&mdash;‘Lift ’em hard, Will.
That’s your time o’ day. Chink-wink ’em
along!’”</p>

<p>“There’s no time given, then?” said I.</p>

<p>“Time!” repeated Trimbush with a sneer.
“I’ll just give ye an instance of what may be
deemed a fair sample of the patience of
sportsmen of the age we live in. One day last
season we had been running a merry bat, for
about twenty minutes, as hard as we could
split, and leading the field over enough
yawners to satisfy the greatest glutton or
steeple-chase rider that ever crammed at a
rasper. The fox was dying, and, heading
short on his foil up wind, brought us to a
momentary check. ‘Hold hard, gentlemen!’
hallooed Will Sykes; ‘pray hold hard!’
‘Consume me!’ exclaimed one who had been
jamming his horse close to our sterns; ‘what
sport one might have, if it wasn’t for these
d&mdash;&mdash;d hounds!’”</p>

<p>“A pretty kind of a foxhunter, truly!” I
remarked.</p>

<p>“A faithful description of the majority, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span>
can assure ye,” replied my companion. “But
I must not lose any more breath in talking to
you,” continued he; “I may feel the want of
it.”</p>

<p>I had already done so, but was too proud
to let the symptoms be visible in any flagging
on my part. Desirous as I was, however, to
maintain the pace we had been going for some
minutes, and over part of an enclosed country
with strong fences, I began to feel my
strength failing, and the absurdity of my
boast of endurance becoming manifested. I
now, in spite of every exertion, dropped in
the rear; and although Trimbush cheered me
to hold on, I could not but think there was a
chuckle of triumph in his often-repeated
query, “Why don’t you come along?
Recollect what you said about thirty miles
without a check.” And then, as if to mock
me, the old hound increased his speed, and,
upon reaching a wide and level common, ran
completely out of view, leaving me alone in
my glory.</p>

<p>For a short time I endeavoured to struggle
forwards, but quickly losing the line, and becoming
bewildered and giddy from fatigue, I
soon staggered to a stand-still. Ignorant of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span>
my way home, and not knowing what to do
better, I gave tongue for assistance, and was
heartily glad to have my cry responded to by
the loud barking of a shepherd’s dog, whom
I perceived with his master, in a valley at the
foot of the hill on which I stood. In a few
seconds he came trotting up to me, and mutual
delight was experienced in finding that we
were familiar acquaintances, and had had
many a game of fun together when I was at
walk at the home of my puppyhood, the
hospitable farm-house.</p>

<p>“What, Ringwood, lad!” exclaimed the
shepherd upon approaching me, and patting
my sides, “is it you? Zounds, but it is!”
continued he. “I’d know thee anywhere,
skeleton though ye be.”</p>

<p>For that night I was housed in my old
home, and the following day again conducted
to the kennel.</p>

<p>“I wouldn’t have lost him for the whole
entry,” said Will Sykes, receiving me with a
warm welcome. “I can’t think,” continued
he, turning to the second whip, who, I
thought, regarded me with rather a savage
expression, “how you let ’em get away.”</p>

<p>“I’ve told ye twenty times already,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span>
replied Ned Adams, in a tone and manner
portraying his humour, “that the devil
himself couldn’t get to their heads. I did my
best, and, like many o’ my betters, was
beaten.”</p>

<p>“Well, well!” rejoined the huntsman
with glee, “it’s the first time that I ever
heard of a whipper-in not being able to stop
a puppy, cub-hunting. Ha, ha, ha.”</p>

<p>“It was Trimbush, and not him,”
returned the irate Ned.</p>

<p>“Oh!” added Will Sykes, “It was Trimbush,
eh? It wasn’t worth while then, I
suppose, to get to the head of one without the
other, and yet, if I am told rightly, it would
have been a difficult job to have separated
them.”</p>

<p>The second whip was evidently chafed at
this bantering, and turned away with a
flushed cheek, and a tongue muttering anything
but his prayers.</p>

<p>Upon entering the kennel again, all my
companions came round me, and each, in
turn, licked my torn ears and eyes, and were
as kind and friendly as if I had been a
brother to each.</p>

<p>“I am glad to see you back again,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span>
observed Trimbush, raising himself from a
corner of the court, and stretching his limbs.
“I began to think some danger had befallen
ye.”</p>

<p>“No thanks to you for having escaped it,”
replied I, somewhat sharply.</p>

<p>“Oh!” rejoined the old hound, carelessly:
“in a run it’s every hound for himself, and
a kick for the hindmost. There’s no
consideration then.”</p>

<p>“What did you do with the varmint?”
inquired I, anxious to learn the result of our
hunt.</p>

<p>“Within five minutes of tailing you off,”
replied he, “I ran him from scent to view;
and if he had not gone to ground, I’d have
broken him up without any sharers in the
feast. As it was,” he continued, “he was so
hot and beaten that he couldn’t lie more than
a few inches from the mouth of the earth; and
there we remained, with our red rags out,
panting and grinning at each other for
hours. Now and then I had a scratching dig
for him; but finding that I could make no
progress for the roots, left at last reluctantly,
and pointed for home, where I arrived when
the stars were twinkling.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span></p>

<p>“Did you see Ned Adams upon your
return?” I inquired.</p>

<p>“No,” replied Trimbush. “Mark, the
feeder, was waiting for me, knowing that I
should be back in the course of the night, let
the distance be ever so great; and the good
old fellow examined my feet and gave me a
good supper, without the least show of bad
temper for having kept him from bed.”</p>

<p>“The second whip would not have treated
ye so,” I observed.</p>

<p>“Perhaps not,” returned he. “You
mustn’t suppose, however, that Ned bears any
malice. He might feel vexed and chafed at
not being able to obey orders, but he always
lets bygones be bygones.”</p>

<p>In the course of discussion relative to the
events of our stolen run, and during which
the remainder of our companions formed a
willing auditory, I asked Trimbush how he
discovered the difference between the scent of
a dog fox and that of a vixen.</p>

<p>“In the first place,” responded he, “it is
never so strong; and when she has either laid
down her cubs, is about to do so, or has not
left off suckling, there is a peculiar odour
with her which cannot be mistaken. Now,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span>
most animals,” continued he, “as I observed
yesterday, have an aversion to kill those in
any of the situations just described; but I
should have added, <em>when the purpose is to
eat them</em>. For instance, a stoat will not
touch a rabbit when about to litter; but a
terrier would kill her in a moment. This is
the reason that so few birds are killed whose
nests are on the ground. The weazel avoids
the partridge and lark whilst setting, and the
fox passes the pheasant.”</p>

<p>“What!” exclaimed I. “Won’t a fox
snap a pheasant from her nest?”</p>

<p>“Gamekeepers,” resumed Trimbush,
“would tell you, ‘Always when an opportunity
presents itself;’ but I know better. A
vixen, with a large litter, and food scanty,
will do so now and then, I don’t deny; but
what does she get? Skin, bone, and feathers&mdash;a
most unsavoury morsel, for which the cubs
will scarcely care to fight. The mother knows
this well enough, and, unless driven to
extremities, never takes any kind of bird
from her nest.”</p>

<p>“The farmer’s wife tells a different story,”
I observed.</p>

<p>“The farmer’s wife, like the gamekeeper,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span>
is a sworn enemy to foxes,” returned Trimbush,
“and with equally groundless cause.
If a single head of poultry is missed, the
robbery is always ascribed to a fox, and, however
devoid of foundation, never forgotten.
The old trot dates her subsequent life from
the event, and begins her tale with, ‘About
six months after the fox took my duck,’ and
so keeps the matter fresh and vivid to the end
of her days.”</p>

<p>“One would think you were a preserver
instead of a killer of foxes,” said I.</p>

<p>“Ay,” rejoined the speaker; “if it was
not for preserving, we should have no opportunities
of killing.”</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span></p>

<h2 id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.</h2>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“We will, fair queen, up to the mountain’s top,</div>
<div class="verse">And mark the musical confusion</div>
<div class="verse">Of hounds, and echo in conjunction.”</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>Will Sykes was designed by nature for a
huntsman. With a short stature and wiry
frame, he possessed activity, indomitable
courage, patience, and judgment. His voice,
too, seemed to come from his heart, as he
cheered with lusty lungs; and his strong grey
eyes encompassed a whole parish, when he
threw them forward for a view. Good
humour sat upon his lip, and there was a
great secret in his possession, of being capable
of pleasing everybody without any apparent
effort. Proud&mdash;perhaps a little vain&mdash;was
our Will of his exterior; but then there might
be sufficient cause; for although his short-cropped<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span>
hair was grizzled and frosted by
time, and a few wrinkles&mdash;albeit the joint
effects of laughter and age&mdash;were stamped on
his ruddy cheeks, few could boast of a larger
circle of admirers. Will could never pass
through a village, in pink and boots, but
old women and young&mdash;but more especially
the young&mdash;and mothers and maids flocked
to their cottage doors and windows to
exchange nods and friendly greetings with
him. Ladies, too, of the first degree
acknowledged his polite lift of the cap with
friendly smiles, and, at convenient seasons,
inquired after the health of Mrs. Sykes, and
took quite an interest in sundry other of his
domesticities and household economy. And
was the huntsman’s better half&mdash;the plump,
the prim, the comely Mrs. Sykes&mdash;jealous of
these attentions? By no means. That
excellent and discriminating person considered
that the favour in which Will was
held by the gentle and simple might be
ascribed to her tactics and general measures
of expediency; and popularity, she had cogent
reasons for supposing, had greatly to do with
the liberal capping so invariably bestowed
upon the huntsman, whenever his right and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span>
title to the gratuity accrued. Worthy indeed
is the care to be recorded with which the
worthy dame bleached and starched the
cravat, folded and tied without a crease,
around Will’s neck. The white cords, too,
stained as they have been in many a run, with
the mud flying in showers over them, are
spotless, and without a speck to note the wear
and tear of bygone seasons. His tops also
bore evidence of a division of Mrs. Sykes’s
accomplishments. Scratched and rubbed, it is
true, they were; but no erasible mark was
permitted to remain. His spurs, too, glittered
again; and in short, “no baron or squire, or
knight of the shire,” had greater attention
paid to his toilet than had our huntsman.</p>

<p>“Personal appearance,” observed Mrs.
Sykes to Will, one evening, sitting in a cozy
corner of his parlour, in a dreamy, winking,
blinking state, lulled by the influence of a
blazing yule log&mdash;“personal appearance,”
repeated she, somewhat louder, “is necessary
for personal respect; and unless we look as if
we respected ourselves, it’s unreasonable to
suppose that other people will go for to
respect us. We must best know,” continued
she, “our own in’ards; and if we show, by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span>
our out’ards, that they’re all gammon and
bacon, rest assured they won’t pass as the
<em>best</em> of chitlins.”</p>

<p>And was it for this, then&mdash;this worldly
object&mdash;that Mrs. Sykes might be seen on
every succeeding Sunday, volume in hand,
walking with stately and measured tread
along the path leading to the gray-mossed and
ivy-twined church? Was it for this that the
ribbed silk dress and most treasured bonnet
were donned on the seventh day, when the
likelihood was great of many eyes beholding
them? Was it for this that, from the bright
buckle in her shoe to the topmost ribbon stuck
jauntily to flutter in the breeze, Mrs. Sykes
evinced such elaborate taste and dainty care?
Mrs. Sykes, like countless hosts of her betters,
would have been justly indignant had such
prying interrogatories been put to her for
solution, however blandly they might have
been effected; and as there is no confession on
her part, and no justifiable ground for speculation
in the replies, they must remain
unanswered to the end of time.</p>

<p>Tom Holt, the first whipper-in, and consequently
second in command, was a very
different <i lang="la">genus homo</i> to our huntsman. As<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span>
may already have been learned from his
expressed opinions and sentiments, he
possessed strange quirks and notions, and, to
use his own graphic description of his
imaginary pedigree, might have been “a
cross between a bull-dog and a flat iron.”
Much nice sophism might be used to support
the poetical origin of Tom Holt; but if
volumes were written to define his allegory
more clearly, the end could not be more satisfactorily
arrived at than by briefly saying,
“it can far more easily be conceived than
described.” Tom was a reflective man; he
could not see an infant in its mother’s arms
without the endeavour to picture to his vivid
imagination how it would look when blear-eyed
with age. A piece of thistle-down, whirling
here and there, now catching in a bramble,
and then skimming along in its varied,
uncertain course, would make him think of
“cause and effect” for an hour. A dew-drop,
a feather in the air, a film of gossamer,
often set Tom Holt “a-thinking” for the
livelong day. He was a dreamer, and had
more strange fantasies, with eyes wide and
staring open, than a thousand such will-o’-the
wisps fanned by the fairies’ midwife, Queen<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span>
Mab. And yet Tom Holt, although his face
was pale and thin, and his dark hazel eyes
always bore a serious look, enjoyed right
heartily his duties, and all thereunto pertaining.
He studied the attributes and affections
of the animals with which he had to deal, and
took little less delight in the cunning and
subtle tricks of the crafty fox than he did in
the sagacity of his darling hounds hunting
him. Like many enthusiasts, however, Tom
went very strange lengths upon occasions; and
it was generally reported in a wide ring in
the country, that he asserted, when “much
wrought,” at the Duck and Gridiron, upon a
memorable occasion, “that a spider might
teach a weaver more in one hour, than he
could learn in a seven years’ apprenticeship.”
Be this as it may, there is no doubt whatever
that, upon Tom’s recovering consciousness
from a stunning fall, causing the blood to
flow from his nose profusely, he remarked,
brushing a few of the sanguinary drops from
the tip of it, that, “he did not see why they
shouldn’t be blue instead of red.” This is an
ascertained and acknowledged fact, and,
without further detail of his oddities and
eccentricities, Tom Holt must be left, like the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span>
cork against the tide, to work his own way.</p>

<p>It appears indispensable&mdash;stale as the
necessity may prove&mdash;to introduce the persons
spoken of previously to relating the scenes and
incidents in which they may assist. The
second whip, Ned Adams, therefore, must not
be permitted to escape notice altogether, like
one of immaterial consequence and account;
and although slight will be the sketch of his
virtues, vices, and tendencies, still, to render
that which is justly due is but to yield the
very bare bones of common honesty. As with
the greater number of second whippers-in,
Ned was a connexion of the huntsman, and
had the right&mdash;needlessly, be it said, on the
maternal side&mdash;to call him “uncle,” Ned’s
uncle embraced divers opportune occasions to
impress upon his nephew’s mind the onerous
duty and essential service which may be
performed by a whipper-in if he will only
<em>keep in his place</em>. “But,” observed the
huntsman, “most of you hot-blooded young
’uns are so eager to get for’ard, that ye forget
the first principles of what you ought to do,
and instead of keeping behind, to bring on the
tail hounds, hang me if you don’t jam to the
sterns of the leading ones.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span></p>

<p>“It’s more than mortal patience can
endure,” replied Ned, by way of justification,
“to stick in the rear on some occasions.”</p>

<p>“But your duty, Ned,” seriously rejoined
Will Sykes, “won’t bear excuse. It’s as
much your place to be behind hounds as it is
mine to be with them. In my judgment,”
continued he, “there are but these couple of
proper causes for a whip to be seen for’ard:&mdash;when
hounds are to be stopped, and when
ordered to clap to an open earth or hold a
fox in covert, if not on such terms that we
can run him.”</p>

<p>“But you seldom give me the chance of
doing the last,” returned his nephew.</p>

<p>“And the less the better,” added Will
Sykes. “It’s too much like mobbing a fox
to please me; but still there are occasions, as
in lifting hounds, to justify us in so doing. If
the scent be cold and the fox a long way
ahead, so that hounds can’t hunt, we must,
in order to have any chance, get them nearer
to him, and then it is that a whip may get
for’ard to the point and head him in.”</p>

<p>“But this only applies to a fresh fox, I
suppose?” said Ned Adams.</p>

<p>“To be sure,” responded his uncle,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span>
“unless, indeed, he’s a dying one: for then,
as he can show no more sport, the sooner
he is killed the better. I’m one of the
last men living,” continued the huntsman,
emphatically, “to kill a fox by either lifting
hounds or any other means, except by a fair
find&mdash;a fair rattle from scent to view, and
pulling him down when he can’t run any
farther. But it isn’t every day that we can
have such cream of sport; and for any one to
say that it’s unjustifiable to lift or assist
hounds to run when they can’t hunt, or that
we should never hold a fox in covert, is to
acknowledge himself to be too tame a hand
for a killer of foxes.”</p>

<p>“Nobody will accuse you of being that,”
rejoined his nephew, laughing, “if they
count the noses on the kennel-door at the end
of each season.”</p>

<p>“I hope not,” returned the huntsman,
seriously. “I hope,” continued he, “that
when Will Sykes’s tally comes to be reckoned
up and squared, those noses will go in the
scales with his morals, and make ’em kick the
beam.”</p>

<p>It has been said that Will Sykes possessed a
wide circle of admirers; and therefore to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span>
quite silent upon the matter respecting his
nephew, would be an act approaching
injustice; for, although the number was more
choice, and&mdash;to be strictly correct&mdash;comprised
no old women whatever, yet there is no
question but every pretty, young, and
unmarried one within the wide range of
Ned’s jaunts and wanderings might be fairly
registered among them. And no wonder; for
Ned was spruce and handsome, and had soft
looks, and yet softer words, for those with
whom he wished to be in favour. His jest and
laugh, too, were free and hearty; and where-ever
he went, “Welcome” awaited him.</p>

<p>The short sketches of those in immediate
authority would still be incomplete if Old
Mark the Feeder was allowed to escape observation.
Whether he possessed a surname is a
subject known only to himself; for nobody
ever heard him spoken of, or to, but as “Old
Mark.” From infancy he had been employed
in the kennel, and owed his want of promotion
to a nervous inability to become a horseman.
No exertions on his own part, or those of
others, could render him anything like competent
to ride to hounds; and the result was
that, after a long and patient trial to obtain<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span>
this necessary accomplishment for a whipper-in,
Mark was compelled to abandon the
design, and to fall back on his former
position. After this, no second attempt was
made; and so years and years rolled on, and
at length discovered the failure of a whipper-in
in Old Mark the feeder. As may be
supposed from his long experience, no one
knew more about us than he did; and the
moment his practised eye fell on a hound, he
could instantly tell a defective point, let it be
never so trifling. Proud and enthusiastic in
his calling, the courts and lodging-houses
were always clean, dry, and wholesome; and,
late or early, the old man never allowed the
most insignificant part of his duties to pass
unfinished. The feet of each were carefully
examined after returning home, and if foot-sore,
washed with bran, warm water, and
vinegar. A warm bath, too was also in
readiness, and plenty of clean straw to roll
in for the purpose of drying.</p>

<p>Little can be said of Mark’s outward man;
for his back was crooked&mdash;perchance from
continually bending over the troughs and
copper&mdash;and his legs were lean and long, like
a daddy-long-legs; but one of the best<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span>
attributes of human nature sat reflected in
his mild, open, honest face; and that was
gentle kindness of heart. Oh! if the world
was more thickly populated with “Old
Marks,” how many hearts and hides would
cease to throb with anguish!</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span></p>

<h2 id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.</h2>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“In the barn the tenant-cock,</div>
<div class="verse">Close to partlet, perched on high,</div>
<div class="verse">Briskly crows (the shepherd’s clock),</div>
<div class="verse">Jocund, that the morning’s nigh.”</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>With a yawn, a stretch, and a shake, Trimbush
completed his toilet one misty morning,
just as a neighbouring cock had thrice thrown
his chivalrous challenge on the breeze, and
invited me, with a crack of his stern across my
muzzle, to follow his early example of
industry.</p>

<p>“Come,” said he, “it’s time to be awake
and stirring. How do ye fare?”</p>

<p>“Hearty and hungry,” replied I, reluctantly
arousing myself from a dream of
enjoyment.</p>

<p>“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Trimbush.
“You’ll have to wait, then,” continued he,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span>
“till sunset for a meal, unless you earn a
share for yourself.”</p>

<p>“How so?” inquired I.</p>

<p>“This will be the first meet o’ the season,
and your first day of regular work. Mind,”
said Trimbush, admonishingly, as he showed
a long row of very white and strong teeth,
“to let me see that you have profited by my
lessons and the experience you’ve had in cub-hunting,
or your jacket may be well shaken
when least expected.”</p>

<p>“You needn’t begin to threaten,” rejoined
I, somewhat indignantly, “without any
cause. A rate’s well enough,” I continued,
“when a fault is committed; but there’s no
occasion to meet it half-way.”</p>

<p>“True,” returned Trimbush, “quite
true; and your remark only proves that a
young head may sometimes correct an old
tongue, despite what may be said to the
contrary. One of the greatest faults with all
whippers-in,” resumed he, “is the rating us
in anticipation of our doing wrong; or, after
committing it, before soaking in the double-thong;
whereas, they should wait until the
cause is given, and then&mdash;after blistering us
with the flax&mdash;proceed to lecture upon the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span>
impropriety of the conduct. It’s quite
remarkable what effect a sound drubbing has
upon the memory.”</p>

<p>“I shall not forget the first I received,”
observed I.</p>

<p>“But you’ll never repeat that riot,”
significantly returned Trimbush. “It was a
christening not to slip through the memory
as if it had no knots tied in it.”</p>

<p>“But then,” added I, “in coming across
the slot of deer, the scent was so sweet and
grateful that I couldn’t refrain from carrying
a head.”</p>

<p>“Well,” said Trimbush, “like luxuries of
other descriptions, you paid for the enjoyment.”</p>

<p>“And dear as the cost was,” replied I,
“it’s very doubtful whether I might not be
inclined to have another flutter at the same
feather.”</p>

<p>“What! swallow a hackle of the dog that
bit ye?” rejoined my friend.</p>

<p>“It’s a common case, I’ve heard, with our
betters,” returned I.</p>

<p>“Right again,” added my companion.
“Fire puts out fire.”</p>

<p>“I suppose,” observed I, “that you’ve<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span>
felt, before now, an inclination to repeat an
error, convinced as ye may have been of its
impropriety.”</p>

<p>“Ah!” exclaimed Trimbush, drawing in
the breath between his teeth with a hissing
sound; “that I have. We are as clannish as
Scotsmen, and support each other through
thick and thin, in the same mortar-an’-brick
fashion. If one of us is a marked and
confirmed rebel, he seldom repeats his fault
without lots of company to back him. The
season before last, a hound was sent here from
the north country, and as sulky and ill-tempered
a brute as was ever seen in a kennel.
We all hated him; and yet, strange as it may
appear, upon Ned Adams attempting to drive
him from the lodging-house one morning, in
consequence of his refusal to come when
called, he flew at him, and, fastening upon his
shoulder, was instantly joined by half the
hounds in the court.”</p>

<p>“I can’t understand that,” replied I.</p>

<p>“The cause lies in our blood and bone,”
rejoined my friend. “The impulse with us,”
continued he, “is paramount&mdash;to follow the
leader however wrong he may be in his
example.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span></p>

<p>“And what was the finish of this attack
on Ned Adams?” inquired I.</p>

<p>“But for his lusty lungs for help,” replied
Trimbush, “it might have gone hard with
him. However, Will Sykes, Tom Holt, and
Old Mark quickly made their appearance,
and put an end to the fray with little
difficulty. As for our new companion, we
never saw him afterwards.”</p>

<p>“He was sent away, I suppose?”
remarked I.</p>

<p>“Yes,” returned Trimbush, “to dance in
the air with a hempen cord round his
throttle.”</p>

<p>“And no wonder, either,” added I, “for
such an offence.”</p>

<p>“Breaking up a whipper-in is certainly no
joke,” said my companion. “But there was
one picked as clean as ivory once, without any
unpleasant interruption to the spread.”</p>

<p>“Gracious powers!” ejaculated I, “what
do you mean?”</p>

<p>“Simply what I have said,” replied Trimbush,
licking his jaws with a peculiar relish,
and coolly adding, “I had a hand in the
supper.”</p>

<p>“You?” I exclaimed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span></p>

<p>“Listen,” returned the old hound, checking
my impetuosity, “and you shall hear. I
was not bred in this kennel, but came from the
west at the end of my first season. It so
happened that about the middle of this season,
and when all of us were full of fire and
devilry, our regular whipper-in died, and his
place became filled by a perfect stranger to
us. His cottage being within a short distance,
he could hear any quarrel or disturbance, and
was ready to quell it at a moment’s notice.
Trifles light as air, I’ve heard, will frequently
cause the most vital consequences; and such
was the case that I am alluding to. A ray of
the moon, streaming through a chink in the
door of our lodging-house, occasioned a
hound of the name of Restless to bay it. This
broke the sleep of all; and in a few minutes a
regular fight began, each running a-muck and
attacking friend and foe with equal want of
consideration. In order to quell the row, the
whipper-in made his appearance amongst us,
as he quitted his bed, undressed; but scarcely
had he lifted the latch of the entrance, when&mdash;not
recognising his voice or his person&mdash;he
was seized by the throat; and, before
the morning light, there was nothing left<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span>
but a cleanly picked skeleton.”</p>

<p>“I’m not surprised at his death, under the
circumstances,” rejoined I; “but to eat
him!”</p>

<p>“In my opinion,” added Trimbush, “that
was the most innocent part of the affair.”</p>

<p>“And how,” said I, curious to learn
further particulars, “how did he taste?”</p>

<p>“Take my word for it,” replied the old
hound, in a tone and manner conveying much
conviction of the correctness of the assertion,
“take my word for it,” repeated he, “that
with a little broth, daintier food could not be
eaten.”</p>

<p>“Who was the first to discover the
remains?”</p>

<p>“Our feeder,” returned he.</p>

<p>“And what did he say?”</p>

<p>“Well!” added Trimbush, scratching an
ear with his off hind foot, as if tickled with
the reminiscence which the question created,
“I should observe, in the first place,” continued
he, “that Harry Bolton, our feeder,
was one of the coolest fellows that ever boiled
a copper of kit, and never known to exhibit
the slightest astonishment at anything.
Whenever he read an astounding piece of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span>
news in the <i>County Chronicle</i>&mdash;natural
phenomenon, accident, or offence, or anything
sufficient to cause the generality of his
neighbours’ hair to stand on end was related
to him&mdash;his short unchanging observation
was, ‘Shouldn’t wonder!’ However, thought
I, the ice of your surprise will be broken at
last.”</p>

<p>“And was it?” inquired I.</p>

<p>“You shall hear,” resumed Trimbush.
“When Harry came to the kennel, as was his
wont just at break o’ day, and his eyes fell on
the white bones of the unfortunate whipper-in
spread upon the ground, he continued puffing
a short black pipe, constantly between his
lips, for a few seconds in silence, and then
taking it from them with a slow deliberate
movement, ejaculated, ‘Shouldn’t wonder!
D&mdash;n me if they an’t hashed the whip.’”</p>

<p>“And was that all he said?” I asked.</p>

<p>“Every word,” returned my companion.</p>

<p>At this moment Will Sykes arrived
mounted, accompanied by the two whippers-in;
and to his order, Mark threw back the
door of the court upon its hinges, and out we
rushed with a chorus of merry tongues ringing
for our freedom, and the joy that we knew
to be in store for us.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span></p>

<p>“Unkennelling hounds,” remarked Trimbush,
as we trotted along the road, side by
side, “is one great illustrative fact of the
difference between high-bred and low-bred
animals. A puddle-blooded mongrel, or one
of low caste, licks and fondles only the hand
that gives him <em>food</em>; but we, and all possessing
similar tendencies, love him and those
who show and give us <em>sport</em>. See the
difference with which we hail our feeder’s
appearance, and that of our huntsman. We
have affection for both; but there is no comparison
between either the kind or strength of
the feeling.”</p>

<p>“We may like Will, too, all the better,”
I observed, “on account of his not flogging
us.”</p>

<p>“A huntsman should never use the thong,”
replied my companion. “It should be his
study to be on such terms of friendship and
good-will with his pack, that each hound is
ready to fly to his voice like a bird to her nest;
and among the varied tempers and dispositions
which he has to deal with, this is
impossible if he unites with his office the
duties of whip.”</p>

<p>“I always feel inclined to head just the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span>
other way when I hear Ned Adams,”
observed I.</p>

<p>“To be sure,” returned Trimbush. “The
thrashed hound fears the whip; and getting
away to his cry of ‘for’ard’ is as essential as
obeying the huntsman’s horn; but the feelings
for the two are far from being akin.”</p>

<p>We now turned a sharp angle in the lane,
down which we were gently trotting: and on
a large open piece of waste ground&mdash;the
coarse grass, patches of thistles and rushes,
being cropped by a few donkeys and a flock
of desolate-looking geese&mdash;my eyes first saw
the assembled members of “our hunt.”</p>

<p>Deny it who will&mdash;it is a heart-stirring,
gladsome, inspiring, <em>English</em> sight, to witness
a country gentleman and popular master in
the field. There are his friends and neighbours,
his tenants and yeomen, stout and true,
his servants and dependents, met together for
a noble amusement, and one which unites
them in the bond of goodly fellowship. It
has been well observed, “What is a gentleman
without his recreations?” and, to alter
the query slightly, it might be said, “What
is a <em>country</em> gentleman unless he be a <em>sportsman</em>?”
Like a fish out of water, a bull in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span>
china shop, a bear in a tea-garden, or anything
else strangely awkward and much out
of his element.</p>

<p>There they were, in showy red and Lincoln
green, in leather, cords, and kersey drabs;
white tops, brown, and black; hats, caps, and
thatch; some mounted and some afoot. From
the high-mettled hunter with his shot-silk
and glistening coat, to the rough and shaggy
tailor’s pony; in short, all sizes, shapes,
colours, and conditions, might be seen
congregated, expectant, and prepared for our
arrival.</p>

<p>“Here they are!” shouted an urchin,
perched on the topmost limb of a tree. “Here
they are!” repeated he, hallooing to the
stretch of his lungs; and then a whooping
crew of his fellows took up the cry, making
the welkin echo with their din.</p>

<p>“Your servant, gentlemen,” said Will
Sykes, touching the peak of his cap; and
during a short delay, waiting the arrival of
the Squire, he proceeded to point out the
young hounds, making me an especial object
of notice.</p>

<p>“What’s his pedigwee?” lisped a pale-faced
gentleman in spectacles, famous for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span>
riding hard along roads and over nothing but
hounds at check.</p>

<p>“By Osbaldeston’s Furrier out of Crafty,
sir,” replied the huntsman.</p>

<p>“By Fuwier out of Quafty!” repeated
the interrogator.</p>

<p>“Yes,” rejoined Will; “and I’m much
mistaken if he doesn’t equal the celebrity of
his father.”</p>

<p>“What do you call him?” further
inquired he of the ghostly countenance.</p>

<p>“Ringwood, sir,” returned the huntsman.</p>

<p>“Wingwood, eh?” added the questioner.</p>

<p>“That’s one of the sort,” said Trimbush
to me, “I was mentioning some time ago.
He comes out just to show himself and have
an excuse for wearing a red coat; but as for
taking any interest in either the sport or us,
he fears the one and knows nothing of the
other. A man, from age, or other causes, may
be unable to ride straight and live with us,
and yet take as much pleasure in joining the
meet, nicking in, and pottering on to the end
of a run, as those who are in the first flight
from the find to the finish; but I am certain,
from what I have seen, that if a man is so
naturally timid as to be afraid to ride to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span>
hounds, he can never be&mdash;in the sense of the
word&mdash;a foxhunter.”</p>

<p>“And who is he?” I asked, pointing to a
thick-set and jolly-looking man in a green
coat, and occupied in the act of taking up the
girths of his saddle.</p>

<p>“A very different description of sportsman,”
replied Trimbush; “that’s farmer
Stockdale, a tenant of the Squire’s, who has
forgotten more about hounds and hunting
than the majority of men ever learn. You
see,” he continued, “that he’s making a
careful examination of his horse, and the few
alterations necessary, whilst there is plenty of
time; as none but the greenhorns leave them to
the last moment. I remember a man, upon
one occasion, tightening a curb-chain at the
moment we unkennelled our fox; and such
were the impatient plunges of his horse, that
he could not mount him again in time to get
away with us, and he never saw an inch of the
run&mdash;long and gallant as it proved.”</p>

<p>My attention being turned to a young man
superbly mounted, and dressed with the most
scrupulous care, I inquired of my companion
if he was one of the timid school.</p>

<p>“No,” rejoined Trimbush; “<em>that</em> he is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span>
not. From the delicate look of his boots,
breeches and gloves, one might feel disposed
to imagine that he was not in the habit of
dirtying them; but so far from that being the
case, he is not only the boldest but the best
rider in the hunt&mdash;for the two do not always
go together. It used to be thought,” continued
he, “by men of the old school, that a
white top was the certain mark of a he-haw,
know-nothing, gal-drawing, watering-place
snob; but I have no hesitation in saying that
the white tops of the present day could show
the dark and mahogany ones their heels without
the slightest difficulty, or more than
ordinary exertion.”</p>

<p>“You think, then, that men ride bolder
and better now?” I remarked.</p>

<p>“Without a doubt of it,” replied Trimbush.
“The stamp of horse&mdash;thorough-bred
and up to the mark in condition&mdash;the pace we
go, and the modern style of <em>racing</em> a fox
down, require both bolder and better riding
than in the days when they found him at cock-crow
and killed him at noon. Not only is
courage indispensable to be near the ‘sinking
one,’ but hands, head, and heels must be
exercised with the best of judgment. I grin,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span>
continued he, “to see a first-flight man, after
a fifteen minutes’ burst, blown to a stand-still;
while farmer Stockdale gives him the
go-by with his goose-rumped, short-legged,
long-necked nag, just in the wind.”</p>

<p>“And does that often take place?” I
inquired.</p>

<p>“Very frequently,” replied my companion.
“Head and hands will beat heels
all the world over.”</p>

<p>At this moment the Squire came trotting
briskly up on his hack; and as he rode through
the throng, hats were lifted and salutations
exchanged. Our master, be it remembered,
although an old English gentleman, was not a
gentleman of the old school. He neither swore
the roundest oaths, nor horsewhipped those
whom he dared or could afford to pay; he
boasted not of the number of bottles it took to
make him oblivious of sublunary matters, or
laughed only at the practical joke and coarsest
jest. His object was not to be the oracle of
grooms and stable-boys, or the subject of
discussion in the village tap-room. With an
affable bearing, he possessed a kind and
generous disposition, and a heart more ready
to befriend the deserving and destitute than<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span>
to check the imposter and depraved. His
house was one wherein hospitality reigned the
seasons round; and it mattered not who were
the guests, a hearty welcome awaited each and
all. In the pursuit, too, of his favourite
sport, he never permitted an injury to pass
unrecompensed, although careful that no false
application should succeed. Not a gate nor a
bar was broken, a head of poultry lost
<em>suspiciously</em>, or the most trifling damage
done, but what, instantly and liberally,
amends were made. Sternly discountenancing
all unfair riding over wheat, young grass,
and layers, he was regarded by the farmers as
a friend to their interests; and so far from
objecting to a fixture in their neighbourhood,
they were glad when it came to their turn.
By proper and simple judicious means the end
is always attainable; and if those masters of
hounds who complain of a dearth of foxes,
and opposition to their sport, would but take
a memorandum out of the note-book of “our
Squire,” many a blank day might be rendered
as fruitful as the vine “clustering with a
thousand rings.”</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/illus2.jpg" width="600" height="400" alt="" />
<p class="caption">“HEAD AND HANDS WILL BEAT HEELS.”</p>
</div>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span></p>

<h2 id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.</h2>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“For easy the lesson of the youthful train</div>
<div class="verse">When instinct prompts, and when example guides.”</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>“I hope I’m to my time,” said the Squire,
pulling out his watch. “Yes,” continued he,
glancing at the dial, “to a minute.”</p>

<p>Immediately after the Squire’s arrival, we
were thrown into the cover, and, when about
the middle of it, I saw Trimbush feather his
stern, and before I could reach him he threw
his tongue, and, as he did so, Will Sykes gave
a cheer which Echo took pleasure to repeat.</p>

<p>“Hark to Trimbush! Hark to Trimbush!
Have at him! Whoop!”</p>

<p>We clustered to him, and, poking my nose
to the ground, I drew in a scent which made<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span>
every hackle on my body stiffen with delight.
Up went my head, and forth I sent some
music that came from my very heart.</p>

<p>“See that puppy,” said the Squire.
“How he loves it.”</p>

<p>“Have at him, Ringwood,” hallooed the
huntsman, rising in his stirrups. “Have at
him, good hound!” and then, turning to the
Squire, I heard him remark, “He’s a perfect
wonder, sir.”</p>

<p>“Yes,” was the reply, “he’s the most
promising I have ever seen.”</p>

<p>We now got to our fox in a body, and
crashed him through the cover. Full swing
we flew, and, as we swept out of the furze, I
was astonished to lose the scent which we had
carried so strong up to the corner of the brake,
and flung myself here and there to pick it up
again. Most of us were sorely puzzled for a
few seconds, when Trimbush, after stooping
his nose to the ground for some distance, down
wind and up, along the verge of the cover,
said to me, “The artful dodger’s slipped
back, and shot into the brake again.”</p>

<p>“Tally-ho! tally-ho! Gone away,”
hallooed a voice from the farthest end of the
cover.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span></p>

<p>“I told you so,” said Trimbush. “We
were too close to him, and he headed back to
make the distance greater at the burst.”</p>

<p>I now sniffed the scent again, and, thinking
I was showing off, made as much noise as I
possibly could.</p>

<p>“Keep your tongue still,” snapped Trimbush.
“Like most puppies, two-legged and
four, if they possess a good voice, they seldom
exhibit equal good sense in using it.”</p>

<p>Twing, twing, twang, twa&mdash;a&mdash;ng, went
Will Sykes’s horn, as he jammed his horse
through bush and briar.</p>

<p>“For’ard, for’ard,” shouted Tom Holt.
“Get to him, hounds, get to him.”</p>

<p>“Come along,” said Trimbush. “Stick
to me.”</p>

<p>“What a clean, fine, lengthy fellow he
is!” I heard some one remark. “His
point’s Picton Brake.”</p>

<p>“Yes,” replied another. “His brush must
be two feet: and what a snowy tag to it!”</p>

<p>“Indeed!” observed Trimbush. “Then
we’ll give it such a dusting as to change its
colour pretty quickly.”</p>

<p>A bunch of old hounds flew out of cover
with us, and, taking up the scent, away we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span>
rattled in a body, as close as a swarm of
bees.</p>

<p>“They won’t over-ride us to-day,”
remarked I.</p>

<p>“Not if the scent lasts as good as it is,”
replied Trimbush; “but that’s doubtful.”</p>

<p>For fifteen minutes we burst him along as
hard as we could split. The day was fine and
warm, and, sinking the wind, the pace began
to tell most terribly upon some of us young
ones.</p>

<p>“I feel very choky,” said I, doing my best
to keep my place.</p>

<p>“Hold on,” returned Trimbush. “He
must have crossed the Kulm stream, and there
we shall get a cooling plunge.”</p>

<p>In a handful of seconds we neared the
water, and dashed into it with as much
delight as a flock of thirsty ducks.</p>

<p>“Now,” said Trimbush, “you’ll be able to
reach the brake, where, I’d bet my stern to a
buck rabbit’s scut, he’ll hang as long as he can
and dare.”</p>

<p>“Why so?” inquired I.</p>

<p>“Why so!” repeated Trimbush, rather
contemptuously. “Because he must know by
this time that he can’t outrun us. The scent’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span>
too good, and we got away with him on such
terms that nothing but reaching a strong
earth, or changing to a fresh fox, can save
him.”</p>

<p>“We must try to keep to our hunted one,”
said I, thinking it was exhibiting some
wisdom.</p>

<p>“Try!” repeated my friend; “of course
we shall try. We always do; but it’s sometimes
impossible to distinguish the difference
between the scent of our hunted fox and a
fresh one. It’s easy enough, when a fox is
viewed, to know, because it can be seen
whether he’s been shoved along at the expense
of his bellows and toilet; but our noses can’t
be depended upon.”</p>

<p>As Trimbush said, upon gaining the brake
we found the fox hanging in it; and, although
very hot, we gave him such a towelling, that,
so far from improving his condition, he had
better have taken to his pads and faced the
open. I saw him a dozen times in cover, and
his red rag hung from his open jaws, and his
brush dragged along the ground. We pressed
him up and down across the rides at a killing
pace, and although there was no bullying by
holding him in cover, and every opportunity<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span>
given him to quit it, he still stuck to his
quarters.</p>

<p>“You shall either run or die,” said Trimbush,
going through the cover like a bullet.</p>

<p>A clear, musical “Tally-ho” now echoed
far and wide.</p>

<p>“Gone away at last, eh?” observed my
friend, and, throwing up his head, he rushed
to the halloo.</p>

<p>“Hold hard!” roared the Squire, as one,
too eager, rode nearly over me as I leaped
from the cover. “You almost killed, sir,”
continued he, “the best of my young entry,
and perhaps the most valuable puppy I ever
bred.”</p>

<p>“I beg your pardon, sir; but my horse pulls
so, that&mdash;&mdash;”</p>

<p>“Then he is not fit to ride to hounds, sir,”
hastily rejoined the Squire.</p>

<p>Being high on our mettle, we flashed
forward, after just touching the scent on a
dry-lying fallow, thinking that we had struck
on his line; but Trimbush, and a few of the
old hounds, soon found that they were wrong,
and, throwing up their heads, came to a
check.</p>

<p>“Let them alone,” said the Squire, as Will<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span>
Sykes indicated a disposition to make a hasty
cast down wind. “Let them alone,” repeated
he.</p>

<p>“He’s certain to be making for the belt of
covers on the ridge, sir,” replied Will, “and
the ploughs are so dry that it is impossible
for hounds to carry it over them.”</p>

<p>“Let them alone,” quietly rejoined the
Squire. “Let them alone.”</p>

<p>“When allowed to make our own casts,
which we always should at first,” remarked
Trimbush, poking his nose to the ground,
“we try down wind first, because that’s the
way foxes constantly run. It’s time enough
to cast up when we’ve made good the cast
down. Humph!” continued he, as if
puzzled, “I begin to think Will’s wrong.”</p>

<p>“What do you mean?” inquired I.</p>

<p>“I don’t fancy he’s pointed for the covers
on the ridge,” returned Trimbush; “let’s see
whether he hasn’t headed back,” continued
he.</p>

<p>We now tried up wind, and, sure enough,
hit it off again under a hedgerow.</p>

<p>“Ha, ha!” laughed Trimbush. “He’s
a sinking one, and has turned to die.”</p>

<p>We now rattled on full swing over a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span>
common, and on climbing a steep hill I saw a
magpie darting to the ground and then rising
high in the air to swoop again.</p>

<p>“What’s that chattering pie doing?”
inquired I, directing Trimbush’s attention to
the bird.</p>

<p>“Mobbing him,” replied he. “The magpie,
jay and crow love to mob a sinking fox.
Keep your eye forward; it will soon be from
scent to view.”</p>

<p>“Are those covers strong?” I asked,
seeing that we were making for a long line of
trees.</p>

<p>“Little more than spinnies,” replied my
friend. “He can’t hang in them a minute.”</p>

<p>We drove him through these little covers
without let, check, or stop; and at the last,
out he flew in view of all of us. We rushed at
him like greyhounds from the slips; but, with
a desperate effort to save his life, he managed
to dash round the corner of a barn, and, as we
turned, I saw him slipping along on the top
of a thick square-topped hawthorn fence,
and, springing upon the trunk of a tree
covered with ivy, disappear. None of the
others saw this artful dodge; but all flashed
forward, and were bewildered at not either<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span>
viewing or being able to hit him off. Trimbush
flung himself here and there in a perfect
fury, and would not pay the smallest attention
to what I had to say.</p>

<p>“Put your nose down and work,” said he
passionately, “don’t talk to me.”</p>

<p>“But I tell you&mdash;&mdash;”</p>

<p>“Pshaw!” interrupted Trimbush.
“What’s your head in the air for?”</p>

<p>“Because the <em>fox</em> is in the air,” replied I.</p>

<p>“What do you mean?” asked he, seeing
that I was serious.</p>

<p>I then told him that which I had seen, and
inquired what I should do.</p>

<p>“Hold your tongue,” returned the artful
old rogue; “it shows a wise head, I’ve heard.
Leave the matter to me.”</p>

<p>In order to monopolize the whole of the
credit to himself, Trimbush galloped to the
tree and dashed at it, in the attempt to climb
the knarled and knotted trunk.</p>

<p>“What’s that hound about?” said the
Squire, looking greatly astonished.</p>

<p>I now saw that Trimbush would get all the
praise of discovering our fox’s hiding place,
and felt greatly vexed with myself that I had
not gone at once to the tree and thrown my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span>
tongue. The rest now clustered round the
leader, who, managing to stick and cling to
the ivy, got some dozen feet from the ground.</p>

<p>“He’s gone to tree, sir,” said Will Sykes,
exultingly, as he threw himself from the
saddle.</p>

<p>“That he has,” returned the Squire,
scarcely knowing which to be&mdash;more
astonished or pleased.</p>

<p>To the infinite surprise of the field, who
came dropping up one by one, they saw the
huntsman drag a fox by the brush from a
hollow in the tree, and catching him by the
neck to prevent the visitation of his grinders,
hold him up over his head with a halloo that
might wake the dead.</p>

<p>“Who-whoop, who-whoop!” cried Tom
Holt.</p>

<p>“Who-whoop, who-who-whoop!” hallooed
Ned Adams, in his good and choice voice,
which always had the effect of working us
into a frenzy.</p>

<p>“He’d give us a run now,” lisped a young
gentleman in pink, “if he was turned down
and had a little law given him.”</p>

<p>I could have bitten his head off.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/illus3.jpg" width="600" height="400" alt="" />
<p class="caption">A CURIOUS FINISH.</p>
</div>

<p>“My hounds deserve their fox, sir,” replied<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span>
the Squire. “He is beaten, and nothing but
an accidental escape&mdash;like this might have
been&mdash;could have saved him. There have been
no unfair means used, from the find to the
finish; and the only illiberal, unsportsman-like
act, would be now to run the risk of
robbing the hounds of that which they have
justly won and made their own.”</p>

<p>Not exactly among us, but not far from
where I stood&mdash;I think Will did it on
purpose to please me&mdash;the fox was thrown,
and my teeth were the first to fix themselves
across his loins. I had been taught in cub-hunting
not to gripe elsewhere; but as it was,
he gave me a nasty pinch in the cheek.</p>

<p>In a few moments afterwards he was given
to us to be broken up, and then somebody
asked the Squire “if he would not try for
another fox, as it was early?”</p>

<p>“No,” replied our master, shaking his
head. “We are fifteen miles from kennel.
The hounds have had a good deal of fatiguing
work in cover, and are satisfied with a novel
but glorious finish. I shall not run the risk
of tiring them more, perhaps for nothing, and
doing away with that spirit which the sport
of the day must have given, I hope, to every<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span>
one present.” And lifting his hat, string
high, he bowed and joined the side of his
huntsman.</p>

<p>As we trotted along down a bye road, with
our sterns well up over our backs, and feeling
as proud as peacocks, I heard Will Sykes
remark, “It was a good forty minutes, sir.”</p>

<p>“Yes,” replied his master with a slight
smile, “but it would not have been so long
if you had made that cast.”</p>

<p>“If I had done <em>that</em>, sir,” replied the
huntsman, dropping his voice to a whisper,
“if I had done that, sir,” repeated he, “<em>we
should have lost our fox</em>.”</p>

<p>“Let them alone, eh?” rejoined the
Squire, smiling more perceptibly.</p>

<p>“Ay,” returned Will. “<em>Let them alone</em>
is a beautiful rule.”</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span></p>

<h2 id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI.</h2>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“See, the day begins to break,</div>
<div class="verse">And the light shoots like a streak</div>
<div class="verse">Of subtle fire; the wind blows cold</div>
<div class="verse">While the morning doth unfold:</div>
<div class="verse">Now the birds begin to rouse,</div>
<div class="verse">And the squirrel from the boughs</div>
<div class="verse">Leaps to get him nuts and fruit:</div>
<div class="verse">The early lark that erst was mute,</div>
<div class="verse">Carols to the rising day</div>
<div class="verse">Many a note and many a lay.”</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>I woke the following morning soon after
the first tinge of day had streaked the east,
and found myself terribly stiff and foot-sore.
My nose, too, was hot, and I felt very thirsty.</p>

<p>“What’s the matter?” asked Trimbush,
waking, as I gave a whine of uneasiness.</p>

<p>“I’m not well,” replied I, limping from
the bench.</p>

<p>“Oh, it’s nothing to care about,” replied
he, yawning and stretching his limbs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span>
“Yesterday’s work has taken the steel and
wire out of ye, that’s all.”</p>

<p>“It does not appear to have touched you,”
rejoined I.</p>

<p>“Me!” returned Trimbush, grinning so
that he showed every tooth in his head. “Do
you know, youngster, what you are?”</p>

<p>“Yes,” answered I proudly: “one who
does his duty, and gives as much satisfaction
as any of you <em>oldsters</em>.”</p>

<p>“Well, well!” responded he, “I must
admit that you allow yourself to be <em>taught</em>;
and both the duty and satisfaction which you
give at present are concentrated in that one
great and good quality.”</p>

<p>Feeling somewhat humbled at this reply,
and smarting under the advantage taken of
me the day before, I added sharply, “There
was no teaching me to instruct you how to
obtain all the credit of the finish yesterday.”</p>

<p>“Hear, hear, hear,” said one of our companions
called Chancellor.</p>

<p>“At him again!” exclaimed a spaded
bitch named Levity, and of the same age as
myself. “Take a suck at the lemon, and at
him again!”</p>

<p>“You’re a sharp lot,” replied the old<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span>
hound, with a mingled look of contempt and
indifference, “a very sharp lot indeed. I
couldn’t think,” he continued, turning to me,
“what made the tip of your stern curl over
your head and tickle your nose until now. I
have heard of a French poodle’s being so stiff
in the bend that he couldn’t get his hind legs
to the ground; but hang me if your conceit is
not about a match for his.”</p>

<p>“But you must admit,” observed Chancellor,
“that without him we should not have
broken up our fox yesterday.”</p>

<p>“Well!” returned Trimbush, “and
supposing I <em>do</em> admit it, what then?”</p>

<p>“You should not have snatched the honour
from him,” replied Levity.</p>

<p>“Honour?” rejoined Trimbush. “Pooh!
The honour was already gained before we
mouthed the fox. We all like blood for the
finish&mdash;men as well as hounds&mdash;but it does not
follow that there may not be quite as much
credit due to both without a <i>who-whoop</i> as
with it. For instance,” continued he, “if
that youngster Ringwood had had his nose to
the ground&mdash;as he should have done the
moment the fox was lost to view, instead of
occupying himself by stargazing&mdash;we should,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span>
in all probability, have lost our fox. What
would have caused us to have done so? A mere
accident, for which no one would have been
to blame. And what, let me ask, enabled us
to obtain a more desirable result? Just
as accidental a circumstance. Honour?
Fudge!”</p>

<p>“At any rate,” said Chancellor, “I heard
everybody praising what they called your
sagacity for discovering the fox in the tree.”</p>

<p>“It’s the way with those fools of men,”
replied Trimbush. “They often laud that
in us which deserves no praise whatever, and
pass by in silence some of our most remarkable
accomplishments.”</p>

<p>I felt that there was much truth in Trimbush’s
argument; and although a sly twinkle
in his eyes led me to suspect that he made
thus light of my information for a selfish
purpose, I lost a great deal of the vanity
which I hitherto had entertained from being
the agent of so fine a finish.</p>

<p>“You chanced to remark yesterday,” said
I, “that foxes constantly run down wind.
Why do they? Is it to render the scent less
strong for us?”</p>

<p>“Certainly not,” responded Trimbush.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span>
“The scent has nothing whatever to do
with it, notwithstanding what a parcel of
cackling geese may have said and written.
The truth is, a fox is a timid, sly animal with
extraordinary quick ears and eyes, and a
famous nose. When found, he, of course,
must break where there’s an opening; and as
no men place themselves up wind of us, or
very seldom, that side is generally left free,
and away he rattles <em>up wind</em> at the burst. I
am now, of course, speaking of the rule, and
not the exceptions. He does not go far,
however, before he smells, hears, or sees
something unpleasant, which turns him either
to the right or left. Another lurking cause
of suspicion that there’s an enemy in front,
as well as those in the rear turns him again,
and so on until he gets his head straight down
wind, when, smelling and hearing nothing
before him, he tries to make his point and get
out of the reach of our ringing cries, and, as
he knows full well&mdash;whetted appetites.”</p>

<p>“That sounds reasonable,” remarked I.</p>

<p>“Thank you,” rejoined the old hound,
flourishing his stern. “I’m flattered with
your approval.”</p>

<p>“I noticed that the scent continued to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span>
improve after the first ten minutes,” said I,
“until within a short time of running him
to view, when it seemed to gradually die and
become more faint.”</p>

<p>“It not only seemed,” replied Trimbush,
“but it did so, and from obvious reasons.
Every animal with a skin&mdash;and I don’t
remember at this moment any without,”
facetiously continued he, “smells stronger
when hot than cold. Fear often produces the
same effect, but from the like cause&mdash;as any
excitement, whether pleasurable or the
reverse, produces physical heat. Now, after
a fox is found, his scent <em>increases</em>&mdash;although,
from the state of the weather and ground, we
may not be able to hunt him a yard, nevertheless&mdash;so
long as <em>exhaustion</em> does not take
place; and then as he sinks, so does the scent
<em>decrease</em>. The reasons for this,” continued
Trimbush, “are as simple as they are
indubitable. The perspirable matter escaping
through the skin augments for a time from
exertion, and the devil of a fright he is in
from our rattling behind him: but this begins
to die away after excessive evaporation, and
often has caused us to lose a fox scarcely able
to crawl.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span></p>

<p>“I thought the scent came from the pads,”
remarked Levity.</p>

<p>“And what made ye think that?” sneered
the old hound.</p>

<p>“I don’t exactly know,” replied Levity;
“but certainly such was my opinion.”</p>

<p>“Then never express such a foolish one for
the future,” rejoined Trimbush. “If it
came from the foot, how could we carry a
good head in a body, and each have a fair
share of the scent? We should have to run
and follow each other in a string, and one or
two might do the work, after drawing, as well
as twenty or five-and-twenty couples. Again,
if it came from the foot, how could we carry
it through water? I say, and ought to know
something about the matter,” continued the
old hound, emphatically, “that the scent
proceeds from the entire animal. The back,
belly, head, foot, brush, and&mdash;and&mdash;and&mdash;exactly
so, and every part else.”</p>

<p>Old Mark was now heard approaching,
which at once put a stop to the discussion; and
as soon as the good old man saw that I was
lame he examined my feet and washed them
with something which he took from a bottle
hung by a piece of string to the button-hole of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span>
his frock. A few others he served in the same
way; and calling us each by name, let us into
another court, saying, “You puppies shall
feed by yourselves this morning; you all want
a little nursing, I find.”</p>

<p>Will Sykes entered soon afterwards, and,
seeing Mark’s arrangement for our comfort,
observed, “That’s right; those puppies want
taking care of.”</p>

<p>“Ay,” replied Mark, smoothing down my
sleek ears and patting my sides, “I hear some
of ’em deserve it.”</p>

<p>“That Ringwood,” rejoined the huntsman,
“is more like a third-seasoned hound
than a puppy at the beginning of his first.”</p>

<p>Old Mark’s eyes glistened again at this;
and looking at me for a few seconds as I
lashed my stern to and fro and stared him full
in the face, to let him understand I knew all
that was being said of me, he muttered, “If
a draft of hounds ever goes to heaven, you’ll
be one of ’em, my lad.”</p>

<p>All this praise tended to make me a little
vainer than I otherwise should have been,
perhaps; but at the same time it fixed my
resolution to merit as much as I could of it.
And I have often thought since, that there is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span>
nothing like encouragement to the young and
inexperienced. The difficulties of attaining
anything worth learning are always great,
and using harsh and severe means on the part
of the teachers only makes the attempt more
painful and repulsive. Punishment is,
occasionally, indispensable for obstinacy or
repeated offences; but there is nothing like a
cheer for improvement.</p>

<p>After breakfast, and when we were all
assembled in the court, the subject of scent
was again renewed by Levity observing, in a
confidential whisper to me, but which was
overheard by Trimbush, “that she very much
questioned the correctness of the old hound’s
opinion concerning it.”</p>

<p>“You question?” snarled Trimbush.
“We shall certainly hear,” continued he,
“of mewling, puking babes teaching their
grandmothers to suck eggs, by and bye.”</p>

<p>Levity looked abashed at this satirical
remark, and, burying her nose between her
fore feet, appeared resolved to give herself to
silence bordering on the sulky.</p>

<p>“There’s nothing so puzzling, nothing so
difficult to comprehend by the best and most
experienced of us,” said Trimbush, addressing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span>
me, “as the philosophy of scent; and yet,
forsooth, we are to be told by a babbling
puppy that&mdash;&mdash;”</p>

<p>“Well, well!” said I, interrupting his
irate speech, “don’t get in a passion about
a trifle.”</p>

<p>“Right,” replied my friend, smoothing
the bristling hackles on his back. “Quite
right. Life is made up of trifles, as the hours
are of seconds, days of hours, years of days,
and ages of years. Life’s trifles are the
atoms in unity, forming the whole.”</p>

<p>Not wishing to enter into a discussion of
this sort, I led Trimbush back to the original
subject by saying, “I should like to hear a
little more about the philosophy of scent.”</p>

<p>“There is little more to add,” returned he,
“as far as I know. Depending, as I have
before said, on the weather, which changes
sometimes three or four times in a day, and
the state of the ground, the rule is, that it is
invariably uncertain. In windy weather we
are often accused of being wild and flashy;
but the fact is, that the particles of scent
being widely spread and wafted about, one
hits it here, another there, and we fly from one
to the other, each thinking that some are on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span>
the right line, and may slip away with it
unseen down wind. There is nothing more
tiresome than a gale of wind in hunting, both
to us and men. We can’t hear each other, and
they can’t hear us; and it is matter of doubt
to me which is the worst of the two&mdash;a thick
fog, or a blowing gusty wind. I may here
remark,” continued Trimbush, “that there
is a strange fact connected with scent, which
I have not heard attempted to be accounted
for. On the going off of a frost, we can run
the drag hard, right up to the kennel, and yet
be unable to run an inch afterwards.”</p>

<p>“That seems very singular,” said I.</p>

<p>“I suppose it to be,” resumed my companion,
“that the scent clings to whatever
the animal rubs against or passes over during
the night; and having gone slowly, a greater
portion is emitted, which is preserved by the
frost, and the thaw having loosened the
particles, enables us to take them up.”</p>

<p>“But how do you account for not being
able to run after he is unkennelled?” asked I.</p>

<p>“Because his skin is cold; and going at a
greater pace, there is not sufficient time for
the small quantity of scent escaping to lie
strong enough to overcome the exhalations<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span>
from the ground, occasioned by the warmth of
the day.”</p>

<p>This sage reasoning on the part of Trimbush
made me feel very small in my own
estimation, and I made up my mind to follow
his advice for some time to come, and listen
rather than give tongue.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span></p>

<h2 id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.</h2>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“To hear the lark begin his flight,</div>
<div class="verse">And singing startle the dull night,</div>
<div class="verse">From his watch-tower in the skies,</div>
<div class="verse">Till the dappled dawn doth rise;</div>
<div class="verse">Then to come in spite of sorrow,</div>
<div class="verse">And at my window bid good morrow,</div>
<div class="verse">Through the sweet-briar, or the vine,</div>
<div class="verse">Or the twisted eglantine.</div>
<div class="verse">…</div>
<div class="verse">Oft listening how the hounds and horn</div>
<div class="verse">Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn.”</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>“I hate this meet,” observed Tom Holt,
as we arrived at four cross ways close to the
market town nearest our kennel. “I hate this
meet worse than any we have in the country.”</p>

<p>“It’s not a pleasant one, certainly,”
replied the huntsman.</p>

<p>“Pleasant?” repeated Tom. “In the
first place there’s a nasty, close, woodland
country with banks as high as churches. Then<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span>
we have a pack of riff-raff counter skippers to
over-ride hounds, halloo, head the fox, and
play the devil. And as if this was not enough
for one blessed day’s misery the Squire himself
generally finds fault all day long with
everybody and everything, when the fixture’s
at these four cross ways.”</p>

<p>“We had better christen them the cross
purposes then,” returned Will Sykes.</p>

<p>“I don’t mean to say,” continued Tom,
without noticing the huntsman’s remark,
“but he may have&mdash;heaven knows!&mdash;lots of
causes to put him out of temper; still it’s
rather hard to feel oneself suffering for the
faults of others.”</p>

<p>“It is not an unusual circumstance,
though,” said Will Sykes. “I have often
heard of similar instances unconnected with
hounds and hunting.”</p>

<p>Some of the field had arrived before us, and
others were trotting briskly up, the hoofs of
their horses clattering along the roads in all
directions.</p>

<p>“We must look out for ourselves to-day,”
said Trimbush, “or there will be cases for
the hospital.”</p>

<p>“They are a rough-looking set,” replied I,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span>
glancing at some thirty horses, not one of
which would fetch ten pounds, and all in a
high state of perspiration, with their riders
puffing cigars and smelling of all kinds of
horrible mixtures. I felt quite ill, and a little
more would have turned my stomach.</p>

<p>“If any of these gentlemen,” remarked
Trimbush, sneezing, “of high rank and
particular smell, get down wind of us to-day,
we shall not be able to hunt a yard.”</p>

<p>“What a dreadful thing it is,” returned I,
“that men should make themselves so
offensive. I don’t suppose they have any
noses, have they?”</p>

<p>“Can’t you see they have?” replied my
companion.</p>

<p>“But it doesn’t follow that they are any
use,” said I.</p>

<p>“Well!” added Trimbush, “as far as
that goes I don’t think they are, although I
have heard of some men capable of smelling a
rat.”</p>

<p>A few of the gentlemen who regularly
joined us now came up on their hacks, and
instantly afterwards their clothed and hooded
hunters, being led up and down by neatly
dressed and light-weight grooms, were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span>
stripped and mounted by their respective
owners. The contrast was strangely striking
between these and the “roughs,” and,
perhaps, caused my admiration to be greater
as I regarded each climbing into the pigskin.</p>

<p>Our master, as was his wont, and which
should be that of every one entitled to the
dignity of a M. F. H., made his appearance to
the minute of the hour fixed, and, lifting his
hat, saluted the field generally, while he gave
his hand, and exchanged warmer salutations
with his friends and associates.</p>

<p>Our first draw was Pickton brake, a large
furze cover about a mile and a half from the
meet, and there we trotted with the gratifying
expectation of a sure find.</p>

<p>“Mind what I say,” remarked Trimbush,
“if you don’t keep your eyes and ears backward
as well as forward to-day, you will
have a dozen horses go over ye and not a bone
left in your skin unbroken. Be quick as
lightning, and if you flash over the scent,
never mind; don’t throw up and check if
there’s a chance of being ridden over. I
never do. It’s not our fault if they won’t
give us room.”</p>

<p>“I’ll take care of myself,” replied I.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span></p>

<p>Upon nearing the cover the office was
given, and into it we dashed, and shortly
afterwards the whimperings in various parts
proved that there was more than one fox in
it. I hit upon a drag and opened loudly,
when Trimbush reproved me, after poking
his nose where I had mine, saying, “Not so
noisy, not so noisy. Let’s have a distinction
between opening on a drag, and a good hearty
challenge when he’s found.”</p>

<p>An old favourite line hunter, called
Rasselas, now threw his tongue.</p>

<p>“That’s it,” said Trimbush, flying to the
cry, and taking it up, his roar thundered
through the brake.</p>

<p>“Have at him!” hallooed Will Sykes.
“Have at him, hoik. Hoik, hoik together!”</p>

<p>It was evident that a brace was on foot, and
the Squire, looking more serious than usual,
desired that the field might move away from
one side of the cover and be quiet, otherwise
there was a probability of a chop taking place.</p>

<p>About a minute afterwards, out came a
fine, lengthy dog-fox.</p>

<p>“Tally-ho!” shrieked a muffin on a hired
knacker, and back the fox dived into the
brake again.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span></p>

<p>“It is most strange, sir,” said the Squire,
riding up to the side of the offender, “that
you should give yourself the trouble of
hallooing, I pay three servants to do that
work, and, although I am extremely obliged
for your voluntary assistance, I shall feel
much more indebted, as will many of the
gentlemen present, if, for the rest of the day,
you’ll hold your tongue.”</p>

<p>I never saw a muffin so browned in the
whole course of my life. If he had been
sworn at and called a parcel of hard names&mdash;which
always recoil upon the utterers of them&mdash;he
might have been made more angry; but
nothing could be more effective than the rate
from the cutting, gentlemanlike tone and
manner which accompanied it.</p>

<p>In consequence of being scared with this
halloo, the fox showed the greatest disinclination
to break a second time, and the day being
very warm, and the cover strong, we began
to feel as if a spider had been spinning cobwebs
in our throats.</p>

<p>“It’s choking work this,” said I.</p>

<p>“Yes,” replied Trimbush. “There’s no
wind here. Let’s press him as hard as we
can; for he feels it as well as us, recollect.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span></p>

<p>We now rattled him up to the top of the
cover, and, crossing a ride, Will Sykes
viewed him, and giving us a ringing view-halloo,
convinced us we were on our hunted
fox.</p>

<p>“There’s a leash a-foot, sir,” said the
huntsman, as the Squire now came to his
assistance.</p>

<p>“Then get them as near to him as you
can,” replied the Squire, “and prevent them
getting on the other lines.”</p>

<p>Ned Adams now viewed the fox in a broad
open ride, and hallooed, “Tally-ho!”</p>

<p>“Never mind,” said Trimbush, as I was
about leaving the scent to fly to the halloo.
“Ned Adams, like yourself,” continued he,
“is young and cannot be depended upon.
Keep your nose down; we are quite close
enough to carry him over the other lines of
scent without changing.”</p>

<p>Immediately afterwards I heard the Squire
ask in a loud, angry voice, “Why did you
halloo?”</p>

<p>“Because I viewed the hunted fox, sir,”
replied Ned, touching his cap deferentially.</p>

<p>“Where?”</p>

<p>“At the bottom of the ride, sir.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span></p>

<p>“And you standing at the top,” returned
the Squire, “when you must hear that the
body is well settled to him, halloo them away.
What could be your object?”</p>

<p>“I thought the stragglers&mdash;&mdash;”</p>

<p>“Would rather fly to their tongues than to
your foolish halloo,” interrupted the Squire,
“or you ought to have thought so.”</p>

<p>“You see,” added Trimbush, “I was
right. But all young ’uns think they know
everything, and the study and experience of
the oldsters go for nothing.”</p>

<p>We had now given him such a dusting that
he could hang no longer, and Tom, holding up
his hat at the farthest end of the brake up
wind, quietly announced that he had gone
away.</p>

<p>Following Will, crashing through the
furze, I heard Tom say to him, “He’s just
crossed the road,” pointing with his whip to
the exact spot.</p>

<p>We flew in a body to it, and, taking up the
scent, away we went.</p>

<p>“Get on,” said Trimbush, “and we may,
perhaps, shake off the rabble and have a run.
It’s our only chance.”</p>

<p>We carried a fine head across the first field<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span>
of some thirty acres of grass, and crossing
two wide ditches&mdash;which would be called
brooks in some counties&mdash;we began to hope
that these would prove of essential service in
stopping the mob. A blind bullfinch, too,
increased our sanguine hopes on this head,
and we began to flatter ourselves that a good
day’s sport was in store, when we had to
throw up and check.</p>

<p>“That ploughman’s headed him,” said
Trimbush, making a cast to the right, “and
he’s down wind as sure as I’m a foxhound.”</p>

<p>He was right, and hitting it off, with an
improving scent, we down with our sterns
and raced along at our best pace. A large
flock of sheep was before us, and, notwithstanding
they ran some distance, we managed
to carry it through the stained ground, with a
little careful picking, without much loss of
time. I saw Will Sykes in doubt as to
whether he should not cast us forward; but
thinking, perhaps, of the sensible rule of
“letting us alone,” and as we did not throw
up, he, luckily for himself, kept his horn
quiet. Had he twanged it he would have had
the Squire about his ears.</p>

<p>As the ground was good and we had a turn<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span>
of wind in our favour, we set to work and
soon recovered the little time lost through the
sheep. There was now every probability of
having a glorious day’s sport. The field had
been thinned materially at the burst, and
those with us were not near enough to do any
harm.</p>

<p>“It will be short and fast to-day,” said
Trimbush, exultingly.</p>

<p>The scent was now a burning one, and we
all bristled for blood. Across three deep
fallows we carried it in great force into and
across a green lane, flanked by two tall quicks,
when suddenly the leading hounds threw up.</p>

<p>“What’s the matter?” inquired several,
throwing up their heads.</p>

<p>“Find out,” briefly replied Trimbush,
doing his best to accomplish the deed himself.</p>

<p>In a few seconds the lane became full of
horses; for it is wonderful how courageous
men are in spinning along the roads. Some
came screaming up and cracking their whips,
and instead of sticking to our work we began
flying about in every direction.</p>

<p>The Squire scolded, Will roared, Tom lost
his patience, and Ned Adams thundered out
“Hold har-r-r-d!” until black in the face.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/illus4.jpg" width="600" height="400" alt="" />
<p class="caption">“HOLD HAR-R-R-D!”</p>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span>At this juncture, a fellow with his hat
hanging by the string, his long lank hair
streaming in the wind, coat tails sticking well
out, and his horse’s head close to his chest,
came tearing up the lane. Bang he went
against me, rolling me over and over like a
football. I thought my back was broken, and
sung out with pain and fright most lustily.</p>

<p>“William,” said the Squire, sternly.
“Take the hounds home.”</p>

<p>Will touched his cap, and the order was
obeyed.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span></p>

<h2 id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</h2>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“Oh! what avails the largest gifts of heaven</div>
<div class="verse">When drooping health and spirits go amiss?</div>
<div class="verse">How tasteless then whatever can be given;</div>
<div class="verse">Health is the vital principle of bliss.”</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>“Lick that stain off your flank,” said
Trimbush, pointing to the dirt on my side.</p>

<p>“Why should I be so particular?” replied
I, obeying his instructions, “we don’t go
out to-day.”</p>

<p>“No,” rejoined he; “but the Squire’s
coming to inspect us, and, I suppose, you’d
like to appear nice and comely in <em>his</em> eyes.”</p>

<p>“What do you mean by that?” I asked,
applying my tongue more diligently to the
completion of my toilet.</p>

<p>“You’ll see in a few minutes,” added
Trimbush, “and if everything isn’t in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span>
gingerly order, I’ll bet a week’s meal and
broth, those will hear of it who are responsible
for their neglect.”</p>

<p>The greatest neatness and cleanliness were
always observed in our kennel; but I noticed
old Mark had put a polish on his shoes, and a
white neckerchief was tied, with much skill
displayed in the bow, round his throat. Will
Sykes, too, Tom Holt, and Ned Adams, upon
entering the court, exhibited more care than
usual in their dress on non-hunting days.</p>

<p>The huntsman, glancing round and seeing
all was unobjectionable as far as his hope and
belief went, pulled a watch out of his fob,
and observed that “the Squire will be here in
seven minutes three-eighths.”</p>

<p>“Can you time him to a second?” said
Mark smiling.</p>

<p>“Ay,” replied Will, “it doesn’t require a
gauge to do that with his rules.”</p>

<p>As a distant clock was striking, the bell
rung at the kennel door.</p>

<p>“I said so,” remarked the huntsman, and
upon opening it he lifted his hat, and in
walked our worthy master.</p>

<p>“Now for my frock,” said he, and one as
white as snow was brought by old Mark, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span>
was sensitively jealous of the privilege of
assisting the Squire to make his kennel toilet.</p>

<p>When attired he proceeded to the boiling-house,
examined the boiling flesh, coppers,
and everything belonging to that department.
Then turning into the feeding-room, he
looked at the troughs and expressed himself
satisfied with the perfect order that all
things were in belonging to this.</p>

<p>In going to the lodging rooms, Will Sykes
said, “How would you like to have them
drawn, sir?”</p>

<p>“Each hound singly,” replied the Squire,
“and the entry first.”</p>

<p>It was some little time before it came to my
turn; but when my name was called out I
sprang, and as soon as I made my appearance,
the Squire took a piece of biscuit from his
pocket and throwing it to me, said “Here
Ringwood, beauty,” and caressed me kindly.</p>

<p>One or two of my young companions
evinced some temper and jealousy at this, and
growled deeply with up-reared hackles.</p>

<p>“Come, come,” hallooed Tom, correctingly,
and a crack from his thong soon silenced the
grumblers.</p>

<p>“His nose is hot,” observed the Squire,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span>
touching my nostrils, and standing a few feet
back followed up the remark by saying,
“What is that redness on his flank?”</p>

<p>“A little heat, I think, sir,” replied the
huntsman, making a more careful examination
of me.</p>

<p>“Then cool him,” was the reply, “and let
him stay at home to-morrow.”</p>

<p>I was very sorry to hear this order given;
for although I felt far from being in health,
I was anything but disposed to be placed on
the hospital list.</p>

<p>Being passed forward to the others,
Vanquisher was summoned, and the Squire
noticing him limp, said, “What is the matter
with that hound? He’s lame.”</p>

<p>“He has cut his near fore-foot a little,”
replied Will.</p>

<p>“Let me see,” rejoined our master, and
upon lifting it up, said, “He has sprung a
claw, and <em>you</em> ought to have known it.”</p>

<p>The huntsman’s face became a little flushed,
and he looked as if he felt the rebuke keenly.</p>

<p>There was no further remark of censure
after this, and when the entire presentation
had been gone through with, the Squire took
his departure, expressing himself perfectly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span>
satisfied and content with the general
arrangements of the establishment.</p>

<p>“I’m not going out to-morrow,” said I to
Trimbush, with my spirits down to zero.</p>

<p>“Never mind,” replied my friend; adding,
by way of consolation, that he would give me
a good account of the day’s sport.</p>

<p>“Yes,” rejoined I, “but that’s a poor
makeshift for the disappointment of not
joining in it.”</p>

<p>“Well, well!” added he, hastily. “We
can’t have everything as we could wish, and
must make the best of crooked matters when
they occur. I dare say,” continued Trimbush,
“that the blow you received the other day,
with the fright, may have put you out of
sorts.”</p>

<p>“Probably,” said I, “and I wish the
fellow&mdash;&mdash;”</p>

<p>“Pish, pish!” interrupted my companion.
“You might as well wish him good as wish
him evil. We have no more power in the one
case than in the other, and it’s old womanish
to snap your teeth when you can’t bite.”</p>

<p>“I heard a man say, when we were out
last,” said I, resolved to take advantage of
Trimbush’s present loquacious humour; for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span>
the old hound spent most of his time in a sort
of dreaming, winking, blinking state in the
kennel, and was excessively out of temper if
disturbed, “I heard a man say when we
were out last,” repeated I, “that he liked to
see a flying hound, and would hang every line-hunter
that was ever bred.”</p>

<p>“He must have known a great deal about
fox-hunting,” replied Trimbush, with a
sarcastic grin, “a very great deal indeed. I
should like to have his name and address.”</p>

<p>“Of course he was wrong,” observed I,
with a slight touch of the interrogative in the
remark.</p>

<p>“Wrong?” repeated Trimbush. “Ha,
ha, ha! It makes my old sides ache again.
What would the flying, flashy devils do when
the scent fails at head if it was not for the
line-hunters? By a line-hunter, I don’t mean
one of those old pottering fools who stick
their noses to the ground as if they intended
them to take root there; but a hound, that
when he has stopped long enough to satisfy
himself that he is on the line, holds forward,
and occasionally feels for the scent. That is
what I call a <em>killing</em> line-hunter, and is a
guide and pilot for the pack. Often will you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span>
see the flyers with their heads up and sterns
down, and no more notion of stooping than a
flock of stray pigeons, flash a field or two
over the scent, and then back they turn and
follow the line-hunter in his cast, and the
moment he touches it, at him they dash, catch
it up, and away they race again. But who
gets all the praise?” continued the old
hound, “Why, those who did none of the
work.”</p>

<p>“The Squire would give the applause to
whom it was due, though,” replied I.</p>

<p>“Yes, yes, yes,” rejoined my companion,
“and so would every true sportsman; but
where there is one who understands fox-hunting
as a <em>science</em>, there are five hundred who
know no more about it than un-hatched tom
tits. There are foxes and circumstances,”
continued he, “that will beat the best huntsman
that ever cheered a hound or blew a horn;
but in nine cases out of ten the cause lies in
not paying attention to the line-hunters.
Hang every line-hunter that was ever bred!
Ha, ha, ha!” and the old hound’s laugh of
derision rung through the courts and lodging-houses
far and wide.</p>

<p>“I am very glad you told me this,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span>
returned I; “for I began to think, from what
I heard, there was nothing so likely to insure
the praise of the field as having one’s head in
the air and flying like a bird.”</p>

<p>“Nor is there,” added Trimbush. “But
who cares for the praise of a set of fools?
I’d rather have one ‘Yo&mdash;o’ from our
master, or a ‘Hark to Trimbush, have at
him, hark,’ from Will Sykes, than all the
yells and whoops from the greatest mob that
ever met by a cover-side.”</p>

<p>“That’s true,” said I. “There’s no
pleasure to be had from their cheer.”</p>

<p>“Only last season,” continued my friend,
“some fellow who was dressed as if he knew
better, absolutely cheered a second-season
hound babbling the moment he was in cover.
‘Softly, softly,’ hallooed Will, cracking his
whip. ‘Why, it’s a challenge,’ said the
gentleman in pink. ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Will,
‘such a challenge that will cause him to have
a hempen cord put round his throat to-morrow
morning. We’ve put up with his noise long
enough, and longer than the Squire would
have done had I obeyed his orders strictly.’”</p>

<p>“And was he hung!” inquired I, feeling
a cold shiver run through my veins.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span></p>

<p>“Yes,” replied Trimbush. “He was led
out of the court the next day, with a rope
round his neck, to suffer for his repeated
offence. It made us very sad to see him taken
away; but no caution or punishment could
break him of the habit, and his example was
a shocking one for the young entry.”</p>

<p>“I’ll take great care not to acquire such
an one,” said I.</p>

<p>“Several made the same remark,” replied
Trimbush, “and some, who were rather
prone to indulge in kicking up a row for
nothing, made serious resolutions to avoid
doing so for the future, when the fate of the
babbler was witnessed.”</p>

<p>“It was necessary, I suppose, for the
discipline of the pack?” rejoined I.</p>

<p>“Ay,” added the old hound, “if it were
not for strict discipline we should be as
ungovernable, wild, and useless as a lot of
untamed tigers. Indeed,” continued he,
“I’m not certain that the tigers couldn’t be
turned to greater advantage.”</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span></p>

<h2 id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.</h2>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“Cold grew the foggy morn: the day was brief:</div>
<div class="verse">Loose on the cherry hung the crimson leaf:</div>
<div class="verse">The dew dwelt ever on the herb, the woods</div>
<div class="verse">Roared with strong blasts, with mighty showers the floods.</div>
<div class="verse">All green was vanished, save the pine and yew,</div>
<div class="verse">That still displayed their melancholy hue,</div>
<div class="verse">Save the green holly with its berries red,</div>
<div class="verse">And the green moss that o’er the gravel spread.”</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>It was the last day of November, and,
consequently, the concluding one of the first
month of regular hunting, that I was left at
home in consequence of indisposition. The
huntsman had given me the night before a
dose of something which tasted horribly
bitter, and I tried to reject taking it; but,
from my position between his knees, and his
ramming a bullock’s horn half down my
throat, I was obliged to swallow the nauseous
mixture against my will. Between the effects<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span>
of this, and the mortification of being
deprived of the pleasure of a day’s hunting,
my spirits became sadly depressed, and I
could do nothing but creep about the court
whining, and feeling as miserable a dog as
any on four feet.</p>

<p>The day was very windy, and the light
clouds, looking like fleecy wool, scudded
before the gale, charged with rain; but
with the exception of a few drops which
occasionally fell, there was nothing as yet but
the threatening of the flooding storm.</p>

<p>Sighing, moaning, whistling, screaming&mdash;now
in fitful gusts, then in one solid sweep,
mighty nature’s breath snaps the tree top and
rends up the gnarled roots of a century’s
growth. On, on, he goes. Bough, branch,
twig, and leaf&mdash;clinging like affection to the
dead&mdash;he whirls and scatters in his stormy
path, and with mad delight flings destruction
in his wake. O-ho for the wind. Away,
o’er heath and waste, and through dark and
deep woods, and by lone churchyards,
humming through ivy-twined belfries, and
jarring rickety casements, shaking old hinges,
and ripping up thatched eaves and roofs, he
holds his course, like a fiery unchecked steed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span>
O-ho for the wind. Breasting the wave, he
drives the surge high, and higher yet. Rolling
mountains, topped with white and hissing
foam, duck from cresting clouds to the wide
chasms below. O-ho for the wind&mdash;death to
others is fun to him. A ship! Boldly she
braves his mighty thrust. Again. With one
fell swoop, and, quivering, down to the depths
she sinks. O-ho for the wind.</p>

<p>It was late in the day, and darkness began
to drop around before there were any
symptoms of my companions’ return. At
length I heard the welcome clink of the
horses’ feet along the gravel road leading to
the kennel, and shortly afterwards old Mark
threw open the door, and in they trotted.</p>

<p>“Well,” said I, as Trimbush entered
“what sport?”</p>

<p>“Oh!” replied he, “none at all. Such a
wind as this,” continued he, “is as bad as a
blind fog or a hard frost; for the result is just
the same. We can do nothing with a fox
while it lasts.”</p>

<p>“I didn’t think of that,” rejoined I, “or
I should not have been so envious of ye all
day.”</p>

<p>“Might as well have been at home,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span>
returned the old hound, in a grumbling
humour.</p>

<p>“You found?” said I.</p>

<p>“Of course we did,” he replied. “We
never get a blank day. They are too staunch
and true preservers in <em>our</em> country for that to
take place.”</p>

<p>My companion was now called to take his
turn in the warm bath, which Mark had
prepared, and after his body and limbs were
well laved, he was ordered into the lodging-room,
where there was plenty of clean straw
to roll in.</p>

<p>“There’s nothing like this,” said Trimbush,
rubbing his back, with all his feet in
the air. “There’s nothing like this,”
repeated he, “after a cold, wretched day.
It warms one’s blood, prevents rheumatism,
and is a real blessed preventative to many
disorders. I like my bath as well as my
meal.”</p>

<p>“You are no bad judge,” replied I,
laughing.</p>

<p>“I should say not,” returned he. “I
should say that I was anything but a bad
judge between what’s good for us and what is
not.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span></p>

<p>After all had been washed, and each had
enjoyed a good tumble among the straw,
Mark summoned them to the feeding-room,
where a bountiful meal was ready for their
sharpened appetites. When this was finished&mdash;and
it did not occupy many minutes&mdash;they
were conducted to another lodging-house, so
that there might be no damp or chill remaining
from the wet straw in the one used as the
<em>drying</em> apartment. Nothing could be more
perfect than all the arrangements made for
our health and comfort, and yet, in themselves,
they consisted of little more than a
simple method of doing that well, which
would have occupied quite as much time and
trouble in the end to do badly.</p>

<p>“There,” remarked Trimbush, with his
ribs sticking out as if they were well lined
within, “now I feel comfortable, and at
peace with all the world.”</p>

<p>“Except the foxes in it,” replied I.</p>

<p>“Oh!” rejoined he, “I have no enmity
towards them. It’s the combined joy of
finding, running, and beating them, and the
pleasure of&mdash;&mdash;”</p>

<p>“Eating them,” added I.</p>

<p>“Well?” continued he, as if weighing the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span>
sentence, “I suppose we may say that, too;
but I am rather doubtful about it.”</p>

<p>“About what?” inquired I.</p>

<p>“About the eating part of the business,”
replied he. “It’s true that we break up a fox,
and swallow him as if we loved his carcase
better than any other kind of flesh. But, in
my opinion, it is more from the excitement we
are worked into than from any desirable
flavour he possesses. A fox is too near
ourselves for him to be considered proper
food for our stomachs. It’s approaching
particularly close to dog eating dog.”</p>

<p>“But that you did once,” said I.</p>

<p>“Yes,” responded Trimbush, carelessly,
“I know I did, and might again, under
similar circumstances. It only shows,” he
continued, “what we will do when in a rage
or in an excited state. There is nothing with
life, from an elephant to a cockroach, but we
would have a shy at.”</p>

<p>“Then you don’t believe that we really love
the varmint as a dainty morsel?” rejoined I.</p>

<p>“No,” returned he, “I think not. Fancy,
for instance, your killing and eating the poor
little vixen chained just outside the kennel
door.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span></p>

<p>“Ugh!” said I, disgusted at the thought.</p>

<p>“Does not that prove what I say?” asked
my companion. “We pass her continually in
going out and coming in, and yet not one of
us ever thinks of making a meal of her. But
if the fox was our <em>natural</em> food, we couldn’t
help doing so, and the first opportunity that
presented itself she would be digested
victuals.”</p>

<p>“But, perhaps, the fear of getting a good
drubbing may operate as a check to the
inclinations of others,” observed I.</p>

<p>“If that were the case,” replied he, “how
is it that the hounds, which occasionally come
home by themselves hungry, never make the
slightest attempt to injure her? Nothing
would be easier than to kill and eat the
fox without the smallest risk of being
discovered.”</p>

<p>“There’s great force in your argument,” I
remarked.</p>

<p>“I flatter myself that there generally is,”
returned the egotistical old hound. “Now,
look at a cat with a bird,” he resumed, “the
cases are very different. Whether the bird is
wild or not&mdash;let it be on the tree or in a cage&mdash;she
will be equally disposed to make it her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span>
prey. Birds, like mice, are her natural food;
and she, therefore, takes them without any
other motive than to please her palate; but
foxes, not being ours, we require the ardour
of the chase to make them agreeable to <em>our</em>
tastes.”</p>

<p>“What do you think would be the effect if
we were not allowed to break the fox up?”
inquired I.</p>

<p>“That we should be just as eager to find,
run and pull him down,” replied he. “You
hear sometimes of men talking about hounds
wanting blood. It’s all nonsense. We may
want to <em>kill</em>; but hounds never flag from want
of <em>blood</em>. All highly bred dogs like <em>us</em> love
sport, and we hunt for the enjoyment of it;
not for our bellies. But men are such selfish
beasts, and think so much about eating that
they can’t give us credit for being more
disinterested than themselves.”</p>

<p>“You are very severe on our masters,”
rejoined I.</p>

<p>“Not more so than they deserve,” returned
Trimbush. “Not one in a thousand of ’em
thinks for himself; but just repeats that
which he’s told, and so they go on babble,
babble, babble, with about as much meaning<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span>
and sense as a flock of cackling geese. It’s a
strange thing, too,” continued he, “that
what they see in one case, forms no precedent
or guide to their addlepated brains in another.
I don’t mean to compare pointers, or setters,
or greyhounds with <em>us</em>, of course; but they
never get blood, and yet they take as much
pleasure in their work, and are as eager to
find game, as if every bird shot over them
was plucked, roasted, and served up in rich
gravy, on silver, for their suppers. Now, it
is quite clear that they don’t hunt for blood,
and, therefore, why should we? It is true
that we look for it at the finish from habit,
and because we are cheered even to take it,
and I never feel wilder than when Tom and
Ted are <i>who-whooping</i> over us; but, to say
that we absolutely require <em>blood</em>, is all
nonsense.”</p>

<p>“But the more we kill, the greater kill-devils
we become,” said I.</p>

<p>“That’s true,” added my companion. “As
in everything else, the supreme gratification
lies in securing the object sought to be gained,
and the running into our fox is ours. The
same rule would apply to our killing but
seldom, and consequently being generally<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span>
disappointed, as to pointers and setters
having very few birds shot over them. Continued
mortification would render all much
less ardent for the work, in consequence of the
dearth of the great <em>climax</em> to sport; not from
the covetous, greedy, piggish, grovelling
want of the material to lick our chops.”</p>

<p>Finding Trimbush getting warm upon the
subject, I thought it better not to provoke the
discussion further, and made no reply. The
old hound, however, continued to abuse
mankind in general, for some minutes, for
entertaining such a low estimate of our
motives in the chase, and wound up his
observations by saying, “It’s not to be
wondered at; for true sportsmen are born,
like poets&mdash;chaps with as much music in their
souls as we have in our tongues&mdash;now and
then; but fools come into the world every
second.”</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span></p>

<h2 id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.</h2>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“For with a sigh, a blast of all his breath,</div>
<div class="verse">That viewless thing, called life, did from him steal.”</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>We were trotting leisurely to cover, one
morning, when I remarked that Trimbush
was more serious and silent than usual.</p>

<p>“What are you thinking about?” said I.</p>

<p>“We’ve got our work cut out to-day,”
replied he, “and I was just turning a few
matters over in my brain, to untie some of the
knots and difficulties which always beset us
when we draw Berry brake.”</p>

<p>“Is that our first draw?” said I.</p>

<p>“Yes,” returned my companion, “and a
sure find. For the last four seasons we have
challenged the same fox, and, as he lives, I
need not say that he has, hitherto, beaten us.”</p>

<p>“But how?” I asked. “He must be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span>
something extraordinary to beat ye four whole
seasons.”</p>

<p>“He is,” added Trimbush: “but he must
be more than <em>that</em>, even to live till sun-down
to-day.”</p>

<p>“Tell me all about him,” said I, “and
what your plans are; for I see your mind is
made up for mischief.”</p>

<p>“Why, in the first place, then, I should tell
you,” replied my friend, “that Berry brake
is the strongest cover I ever was in. It cuts
our chests and sterns, and makes our heads
swell terribly, to get through at any pace.
The scent, too, is very good in it, and from
having given Old Charley some good dusting,
he will not hang a moment now. This, in so
far as the strength of the cover is concerned,
is all the better for us; but he is so wary that
he bolts at the slightest noise, and has taken
to his pads long before Tom has been even able
to occupy his station at the upper part of the
cover. Whatever his tactics may be, however,
he invariably breaks away fresh, and
with a good start, and being as strong a fox
as ever stood before hounds, he has managed
to outrun and beat us up to this time.”</p>

<p>“Is he a big one?” I inquired.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span></p>

<p>“I have viewed many a one in my day,”
replied Trimbush; “but never did I put eyes
upon such a wolf-like looking animal. He’s
as black as thunder, and as long as a rope-walk.
You can’t mistake the devil’s own, as
Will Sykes christened him, if you chance to
view him; but we have not done so for the
last six times of hunting him.”</p>

<p>“View or no view,” rejoined I, “we’ll
stick to him.”</p>

<p>“For a month, if we can but hunt, yard by
yard, inch by inch,” said the old hound, with
fixed determination expressed in his proudly
erected head and lashing stern.</p>

<p>“You’ve got some manœuvre or artful
dodge in store for him, I know,” I remarked.</p>

<p>“I have,” responded my companion, “and
you shall not only hear what it is, but shall
join in the scheme. As I told you a short
time since, most foxes hang in cover as long
as they dare or can. It is their nature to
screen themselves as much as possible, and
they face the open only when compelled and
pressed. A fox that has been often hunted,
however, is of course more shy than one who
has not, and the devil’s own, having
invariably met with a precious rattling whenever<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span>
he attempted to thread the covers, never
hangs fire now, but sweeps straight through
them. In order to be on good terms with him,
therefore, we must act in the same manner,
and to lose no precious second of time,
remember, that the moment we reach a cover,
the chances are a hundred to one that he is
already through. If not, we shall instantly
know that the pull is in our favour by his
hanging, for, if it was not for the general
rule of foxes hanging in covers, they would
serve us, in nineteen cases out of twenty, as
the devil’s own does, and run us clean out of
all scent.”</p>

<p>“Being so crafty,” returned I, “I’m
surprised that they don’t depend more upon
that which would save them, <em>their speed</em>.”</p>

<p>“The reason is this,” added Trimbush.
“Although much faster than we are, and
with power of equal endurance, they cannot
bear the heat of the day as well as we can.
It should be recollected also, that we have
rested the night before, and commence our
work with empty bellies in the morning; but
the fox has been on the pad foraging for food
when we were asleep, and, perhaps, is gorged
at the moment we unkennel him. He, therefore,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span>
feels himself in no condition for racing,
and tries all his cunning to elude us in
preference to facing the open. I don’t
know,” continued he, “how the devil’s own
regulates his meals; but I fancy he must sup
early, and go to bed long before cock-crow.”</p>

<p>At this moment Will Sykes glanced round,
and hallooed, “Give them more room, Ned,
and let them empty themselves.”</p>

<p>“Ay, ay,” replied Ned, checking his horse
to leave greater space between himself and the
huntsman.</p>

<p>“That’s right,” observed Trimbush.
“There should always be plenty of room
between the second whip and the huntsman,
so that we may not be hurried when we want
to stop.”</p>

<p>“Then you intend,” said I, resuming the
subject, “then you intend&mdash;&mdash;”</p>

<p>“To fly straight to the farthest end, or
opposite side of every cover he points for,”
interrupted he, “and especially the moment
we are thrown into Berry brake, in order to
be on good terms with him at the burst. It’s
our only chance,” continued the old hound,
“and if he beats us to-day, with the ground
in the order that it is, and this mild velvety<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span>
wind, hang me if I shall have any hope of
breaking up the devil’s own.”</p>

<p>“Have you made known your plan to any
of the others?” I inquired.</p>

<p>“Yes,” replied my companion, “two
couple and a half of the right sort stand in
with us, and it will go hard but we’ll give a
better account of him than he has met with
yet.”</p>

<p>We had not to travel far to the meet, and
soon after Trimbush ceased speaking we came
in sight of it. The Squire had just trotted
up on his hack, and was dismounting at the
moment of our arrival.</p>

<p>“Well!” said he, addressing Will
Sykes, “is the devil’s own to beat us again
to-day?”</p>

<p>“He may, sir,” replied the huntsman,
giving a cursory glance at us, as if to direct
his master’s attention to the draft; “but if
he does, I shall think Tom’s suspicions are
right.”</p>

<p>“And what are they?” asked the Squire.</p>

<p>“That he bears a charmed life,” replied
Will, “and no hounds ever bred could run
into him.”</p>

<p>Our master laughed heartily at this, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span>
said, “We must try to break the charm.”</p>

<p>I felt all on fire as the cover appeared, and
could scarcely refrain from dashing after
Tom when he trotted off to take his station.
Trimbush, seeing my impatience, said,
“Gently, my lad, gently. There’s nothing
like spirit; but wait for orders, and never
yield to the impulse of committing a breach
of discipline.”</p>

<p>Notwithstanding this reasoning, however, I
could see that he had enough to do to keep a
check upon his own inclination to break away.
But our impatience was not kept long upon
the stretch. Will was as anxious to begin as
we were, and no sooner had the whips taken
their places than he threw us into cover, but
without the slightest noise being made. There
was not so much even as the crack of a thong.</p>

<p>“That’s right,” said Trimbush, going
like a bullet through the furze, “although I
should not wonder but he’s gone.”</p>

<p>The hounds, instructed by Trimbush, and
agreeing to adopt his proceedings, were
Dashwood, Hector, Loyalty, Wildboy, and
Rubicon, all old friends of his. We went
together in a body full swing, more as if we
were flying to a view halloo than drawing a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span>
cover, and just when about the thick of it, a
whimper from Chancellor announced that the
devil’s own was afoot.</p>

<p>“Tally-ho!” now rung from Tom Holt’s
throat.</p>

<p>“Shoot to the right,” said Trimbush, leading,
and in a few strides we were outside the
thick, almost impenetrable gorse.</p>

<p>“Tally-ho, tally-ho!” again hallooed Tom.</p>

<p>“Come along,” said the old hound, “we
are close to his brush this time at any rate.”</p>

<p>Racing to where the whipper-in stood with
his cap in the air, we picked up the scent and
found it sweeter than fresh-pulled flowers.</p>

<p>Settling to him, and with a bunch of our
companions, who likewise made play to the
halloo as we did, away we rattled at the pace
which only a burning scent and hounds
bristling for a kill can show.</p>

<p>For an hour-and-a-half we burst him along,
and not one fox in a thousand could have
stood before us for such a time and over such
a country, in which there was not so much as
a spinny to hide him; but he kept on at just
the same rate, and a halloo, every now and
then, told us that he was only just a-head.
Several of us were tailed off, and some never<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span>
reached the main body at all. The burst was
so quick, that the field, too, couldn’t get well
away with us, and the consequence was that
nearly all the horses were run to a stand-still
before getting their second wind.</p>

<p>“I begin to think,” said Trimbush, still
the leader of the chosen few, “that his point’s
Gretwith rock, and if so, there’s not a bush to
hold him for fifteen miles as straight as the
crow flies.”</p>

<p>“He can’t last the distance,” replied
Rubicon. “We shall run him from scent to
view in less than another mile.”</p>

<p>“So I think,” rejoined Wildboy. “His
red rag’s hanging from his jaws worse than
mine, I know, and that feels like dried
chalk.”</p>

<p>“We shall come to soil presently,”
returned Loyalty. “There’s the Loam stream
not far a-head.”</p>

<p>“Egad!” added Dashwood, “but I wish
it was in my next stride. I’m blistered with
thirst.”</p>

<p>“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Trimbush,
“to find him try an artful move at the
Loam. Be careful, my hearts, and don’t
flash forward on the opposite bank. Feel for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span>
it as you go, and make good inch by inch,
rather than be in doubt. We shall save time
by the trouble.”</p>

<p>Thus schooled, we took especial care, upon
refreshing ourselves in the Loam, to follow
the instructions given, and our first cast was
along the verge down stream, which, also,
chanced to be down wind.</p>

<p>“This is his line,” said Trimbush,
evidently puzzled, “and yet&mdash;&mdash;”</p>

<p>“Let us try up wind,” interrupted Dashwood,
“he may have headed, as he’s a sinking
one.”</p>

<p>“You flatter yourself,” returned the old
hound; “he has as much life in him as will
serve to test your pluck and powers for an
hour to come.”</p>

<p>“But he may have headed back,” observed
Wildboy.</p>

<p>“He <em>may</em>,” quietly added Trimbush;
“but make your work good as ye go. I
think,” continued he, “that we have cast to
the right, which was the probable line, far
enough. Now let us try the left.”</p>

<p>Will Sykes, Ned Adams, and the Squire,
now came in sight; but their horses could not
be spurred out of a trot. Their heads were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span>
between their knees, and their tails shook as
if they must drop off.</p>

<p>“How beautifully they work,” I heard the
Squire say as he threw himself from the
saddle. “Let them alone; pray let them
alone.”</p>

<p>We had now made the cast as far to the
left as we had done to the right, and yet we
could not hit him off.</p>

<p>“I’m sure he’s headed back,” said Wildboy,
confidently.</p>

<p>“We’ll try,” replied Trimbush; “but I
doubt it.”</p>

<p>“It’s now quite clear,” said the Squire,
as we failed to touch the scent in our track,
“that the hounds can make nothing of it.
They have had a fair trial; now let me see
what you can do, William.”</p>

<p>Will threw his strong, keen eye forward,
and his ears were pricked for any halloo or
indication of the line of the fox; but nothing
appeared to enlighten him. He then out with
his horn, and was about making a wider and
more forward cast than we had made down
wind, when Trimbush sprang into the stream,
and swam to a small patch of sedge and grass,
not a great deal bigger than a man’s hat, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span>
apparently scarcely large enough to hold a
rat, when bang the fox sprang from the
middle and away he raced, whisking the
water from his brush like a maid trundling
her mop. We rushed at him in a body, but
might as well have attempted to get to the
head of a stroke of soaped lightning.</p>

<p>“A trick worthy of the devil’s own,” said
Trimbush, laughing, “but I proved a match
for him this time.”</p>

<p>“How was it that we could not carry the
scent down stream?” inquired I, as the
devil’s own became lost to view over the brow
of a short but steep hill.</p>

<p>“Because,” replied my companion, “he
reached the water some seconds before ourselves,
and swimming so far <em>down the stream</em>,
he gained the little bank of mud, where he
squatted, with all the scent <em>washed away from
him</em>. We could, therefore, carry it no
further than where he took water, and as he
did not break from it, the reason is obvious
for our being unable to act otherwise than we
did.”</p>

<p>“I can’t think how you came to suspect
that he had laid up there,” remarked I.</p>

<p>“I never knew a fox to do so before,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span>
returned the old hound. “Soil is about the
only dodge a stag has to try his cunning at;
but a fox rarely hangs in or about water. I,
however,” continued he, “was prepared for
any trick with the devil’s own, and my
anticipation of a deep one proved correct.”</p>

<p>We now came to a more enclosed country,
and the fences greatly added to our momentarily
increasing distress. The hounds
dropped off one by one, and some, attempting
to jump the steep and wide ditches, fell into
them, and there laid, not having strength
enough to crawl out again.</p>

<p>It was fearful work, and how I managed to
stagger forward is a mystery to me to this
day. Trimbush did his best to cheer us on,
and continually reminded us “that a kill was
certain if we only stuck to him a <em>little
longer</em>.” But this “little longer” appeared
to be a very indefinite period.</p>

<p>The winter day was waning fast. Objects
at a short distance began to loom through the
thickening shades, and the sun’s last rays had
scarcely left a faint tinge of his glory in the
west. Still the chase went on. There was no
check, let, or stop. On, on, we flew: the
pursuing and pursued.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span></p>

<p>“He dies, by the Lord!” cried Trimbush,
in perfect ecstacy, as we flashed a few yards
over the scent, and then, turning, hit it off
short to the right. “He dies, he dies!”
cried he, throwing up his head, and waking a
loud echo from his deep-toned tongue.</p>

<p>“What do you mean?” inquired I, reeling
with weakness, and certain that my remaining
strength was all but spent.</p>

<p>“His point was Gretwith rock, as I
thought long since,” replied the old hound;
“but he can’t live the distance. He has now
turned short to run up wind, which proves
him to be a sinking one, and if he reaches
Quaffam wood it is as much as he can do.”</p>

<p>Seeing that Trimbush was serious, this
sage opinion lent fresh aid to our flagging
energies, and the skeleton of his force, comprising
only Dashwood, Wildboy, and myself,
answered his cheer by redoubling our efforts to
run into the devil’s own.</p>

<p>The wood which Trimbush spoke of now
appeared at the bottom of a deep valley, and
into the underbush we dashed, confident that
the fox must hang, and also in the hope that
he would not live to leave it. I had no sooner,
however, entered the cover than, losing the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span>
cool refreshing wind at my nostrils, I fell
to the ground, faint and breathless; but
every effort proved fruitless; and crouching
behind the trunk of a large tree, I was
obliged to remain stationary sorely against
my will.</p>

<p>For a few minutes I heard my companions
driving the devil’s own to the furthest end of
the cover from where I laid, and then, as their
cry approached, I knew they had headed him
towards me. Putting my head close to the
ground, I saw the fox creeping along with his
back up, scarcely able to crawl. His tongue
was drooping from his jaws, and his brush
dragged along as if there was not strength
enough in him even to lift that. Every now
and then he stopped and turned his head,
and, not perceiving me, continued to near the
spot where I laid. Close and closer he came,
and, at length, coming within springing
distance, I made an effort which surprised
myself, and fastened my teeth right across the
middle of his loins before he had a chance of
knowing from what quarter he was attacked.
Catching me by the ear, however, he gave me
a dying grip which made me remember the
length of his teeth and the strength of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span>
jaws for some time to come, and he had not
unlocked them, before Trimbush, Dashwood,
and Loyalty came to my assistance, and
quickly put an end to the struggle.</p>

<p>“We’ll break him up presently,” gasped
Trimbush. “Let’s get a sob or two of wind
first,” and forming a circle round the lifeless
carcase of the devil’s own, we lay stretched
upon the ground, panting and beaten to a
crawl.</p>

<p>At this moment something crashing through
the brushwood was heard, and soon afterwards
a labouring man came running up, and
seizing the fox, lifted him above his head, and
“who-whooped” most lustily. He then
drew a great clasped knife from a sheath, and
cut off the head, brush, and pads of the devil’s
own.</p>

<p>“Ah!” said he, “I heard ye, and thought
there was something up more than common.
I can guess all about it. You’ve beaten every
one o’ the field, and tailed off all the rest o’
the pack.”</p>

<p>“You’re right enough, old fellow,”
observed Trimbush, “and I wish you could
understand me as well as I can you. But what
the deuce are ye about with the fox?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span></p>

<p>The astonishment of Trimbush was caused
by seeing the man deliberately proceeding to
skin the fox, as he might the body of a dead
cat or rabbit.</p>

<p>“I’ll soon whip off your jacket,” said the
man, “and then they can eat ye nice and
comfortably. Such a skin as this,” continued
he, “must be terribly tough, I know.”</p>

<p>“What a considerate Christian!”
exclaimed Loyalty. “Old Mark could
scarcely be more thoughtful.”</p>

<p>“Besides,” resumed the labourer, finishing
his job, “such a skin as this is worth half-a-crown,
and it had much better go into my
pocket than down your bellies.”</p>

<p>“Ho, ho!” ejaculated Trimbush.
“That’s the secret of your attention, is it?”</p>

<p>“Who-whoop!” hallooed the man.
“Who-whoop!” and throwing the dismembered
carcase to us, we tore it into pieces and
demolished, with more than ordinary relish,
the devil’s own.</p>

<p>“Now, what am I to do with ye?”
observed the rustic, scratching the back part
of his head.</p>

<p>“Take us to the nearest best quarters,”
said Trimbush; “give us a good supper,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span>
plenty of straw, and lead us home in the
morning.”</p>

<p>“It’s a long distance,” soliloquized the
man; “but I shall get well paid for my
trouble, I know. It can’t be done to-night,
howsomever; and so I’ll get farmer Oatfield
to give grub and lodgings, and journey home
with ye to-morrow myself.”</p>

<p>“A capital move,” said Trimbush, “and
a sentiment after my own heart. Come
along.”</p>

<p>Most willingly we followed our conductor
from the cover, and after proceeding about a
mile, we came to one of those nests of
comforts, a good farm-house. As we entered
the yard, two rough and shaggy shepherd’s
dogs ran barking towards us; but upon coming
closer, they wagged their short stumpy tails
by way of a welcome, and soon afterwards we
had a famous supper of warm milk and meal,
supplied to us by the hospitable Mr. Oatfield,
who heard with infinite glee the rustic’s
account of the way in which he discovered us;
and then, by his orders, some bundles of fresh
straw were shaken out, upon which we
stretched ourselves, with that pleasure which
only the wearied feel.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span></p>

<h2 id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI.</h2>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“The gorse is yellow on the heath,</div>
<div class="verse">The banks with speed-well flowers are gay,</div>
<div class="verse">The oaks are budding, and beneath</div>
<div class="verse">The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">The silver wreath of May.”</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>“I hate to see those violets a-peeping on
the banks,” said old Mark to the huntsman,
one morning, “and always did.”</p>

<p>“Why so?” asked Will.</p>

<p>“Because they are a sure sign that hunting
is drawing to a close,” replied our feeder.</p>

<p>“Yes, yes,” rejoined Will Sykes. “True
enough. When the speed-well flowers begin
to show,” continued he, “we may be certain
that the season’s almost at an end.”</p>

<p>“Shall we kill a May fox?” inquired<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span>
Mark, for he always coupled the <em>we</em> in all
relating to us and our doings.</p>

<p>“No,” replied Will. “The season’s too
forward, and the Squire said yesterday he
would only hunt twice more.”</p>

<p>“That’s bad news,” observed Trimbush.
“However,” said he, “the noses on the
kennel-door show that we have given a good
account of our foxes.”</p>

<p>“The devil’s own is not there,” replied I.
“How is that?”</p>

<p>“No,” rejoined the old hound. “His
head was sent to be mounted as a cup, I heard
Tom tell Ned Adams, and it is always to be
placed in the middle of the table at the hunt-dinner.”</p>

<p>“I’m glad of that,” returned I.</p>

<p>“No doubt you are,” added Trimbush,
“and so am I. It will be a lasting record of a
run that, if equalled, was never beaten.”</p>

<p>“What was the time, do you suppose?”
inquired I.</p>

<p>“Not a minute less than five hours,”
responded my companion.</p>

<p>“How proud the Squire and all of them
were upon our return!” said I.</p>

<p>“Yes,” rejoined the old hound. “I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span>
thought we should be killed by that which
seldom forms the ground of coroners’ inquests&mdash;excessive
kindness.”</p>

<p>“Well!” exclaimed I, “since we have
but two days remaining, we must endeavour
to wind up the season with a good finish.”</p>

<p>“To be sure,” returned Trimbush; “a
brace more of noses must be added to the
account, at least.”</p>

<p>“How tired I shall be of kennel life
throughout the long, hot summer,” said I,
with a whine at the thought.</p>

<p>“It is rather monotonous, I must say,”
replied my companion.</p>

<p>“And then to be continually shut up,”
rejoined I.</p>

<p>“Oh! but you’ll not be,” added he. “We
are taken out always at daybreak, when the
air and ground are nice and cool, and have a
gentle trot for some eight or ten miles. Then
a certain number, from three to four couple,
are allowed, in turns, to remain at large all
day about the kennel, or where we like, so
long as we don’t get into mischief.”</p>

<p>“That’s very kind and considerate,” said
I, “and contributes greatly to our happiness.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span></p>

<p>“And health, you might have added,” continued
Trimbush. “Nothing is so bad as
close confinement for us, and, indeed, for all
kinds of sporting dogs. The more liberty we
have, the better for our condition, spirit, and
general good. Trencher-fed hounds,” said
he, “are remarkable for the superiority they
possess over their kennelled brethren, and the
only cause is from the freedom they enjoy.”</p>

<p>“What a pity it is,” said I, “that we
can’t make our rulers comprehend us as well
as we understand them.”</p>

<p>“Their heads are so thick,” replied Trimbush,
contemptuously. “A great many are
solid, like stones, all the way through, I’m
sure.”</p>

<p>“Some act as if they were,” rejoined I.</p>

<p>“Act?” sneered the old hound. “Upon
my soul I can’t think what nineteen out of
twenty were born for. Certainly not for
fox-hunting; that’s quite evident.”</p>

<p>“It’s a good thing,” I remarked, “that
our master is not one of the stone-heads.”</p>

<p>“Yes,” returned he, “we are fortunate in
that respect, and in most others. Will and
Mark are as famous hound servants as ever
entered a kennel, and, as a good huntsman<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span>
makes good hounds, so does a good master
make good servants.”</p>

<p>“There’s a wonderful deal in the management,”
I observed.</p>

<p>“Everything,” replied Trimbush. “And,
unless a master of foxhounds is a thorough-going
sportsman, and is acquainted with
all the apparently trifling details of his
establishment, you may depend upon it that
he’s very much out of his place.”</p>

<p>“Your information concerning our liberty
during the summer months,” said I, “has
reconciled me somewhat to the mortification
of closing the season.”</p>

<p>“We need not examine farther,” resumed
Trimbush, “than the effect produced upon
birds, when caged, to learn the advantages of
freedom. The plumage of a wild bird is close,
smooth, and bright; while that of one in close
confinement is dull and rough. There is
strength and energy in the one, too, which is
never seen in the other.”</p>

<p>“The feather often shows which way the
wind blows,” remarked I.</p>

<p>“As well as the national banner of England
floating in the breeze,” returned the old
hound.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span></p>

<p>“I have heard,” I remarked, after a
pause, “with the greatest pleasure, all that
you have said regarding us, and I do not
think anything has been advanced without
sufficient reason being given. But what
would you say may be deemed a general rule
for a huntsman to observe?”</p>

<p>“In the field?” asked Trimbush.</p>

<p>“Yes,” replied I.</p>

<p>“Study the wind,” returned he, “let
hounds alone, and keep his eyes on the line-hunters.
On these important points,” he
continued, “depends all the success in
hunting. But when I say let hounds alone,
I mean that they are to stand still just long
enough for them to be sure that the scent is not
at the point they are trying. We then go
cheerfully to try another; but there is nothing
so prejudicial as an imperfect, hasty cast.”</p>

<p>“Nothing can be more obvious,” I replied;
“and I wish, with all my heart, that such a
golden rule could be indelibly carved in the
memory of every one whom fate may decree
to blow a horn to hounds.”</p>

<p>“Ay,” rejoined Trimbush, “if abided by,
there would be but little cause for grumbling
about want of sport. We can generally do<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span>
far better without assistance than with it, and
the more we receive, the more helpless and
artificial we become. I believe I told ye so a
short time since, and it is the case, not only
with us, but with everybody, two-footed and
four, to look for support from those resources,
which, through times of difficulties, save
labour and exertion, rather than put our own
shoulders to the collar. This is but natural,
and the blame rests more with those who are
unwise enough to forget that we all have our
duty to perform, and in doing that of others
they commit as great an error as in neglecting
their own; because, if not idle themselves,
they are the positive cause of neglect and
idleness in their fellows.”</p>

<p>“Upon my honour,” returned I, “you
talk like a philosopher.”</p>

<p>“Then a philosopher speaks but the simple
truth,” added my companion, “in very
simple language.”</p>

<p>“You never hear,” said I, diving again
more particularly into our subject, “of men
admitting that they had anything to do with
losing a fox, although they invariably claim a
large share in the honour of killing him.”</p>

<p>“You have noticed that, have you?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span>
responded the old hound, laughing. “No; it
is always <em>they</em> lost him, but <em>we</em> killed him.
Ha, ha, ha!”</p>

<p>“It ought to be just reversed,” rejoined I.</p>

<p>“There would be much greater truth in the
assertion, when generally applied,” returned
Trimbush. “A fox is frequently lost through
them, and rare, indeed, is the occurrence when
any act on their part may be regarded as one
of assistance in killing him.”</p>

<p>“I begin to have a great contempt for the
ignorance of human beings,” observed I.</p>

<p>“All of us do at the end of our first
season,” replied my friend. “We discover,
by that time, what a set of know-nothings
men are, and, if worthy to be retained in the
pack, take no notice whatever of their cheers
or rates; but merely avoid their horses’ feet,
and get away from them as far and as fast as
we can.”</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span></p>

<h2 id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII.</h2>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“When early primroses appear,</div>
<div class="verse">And vales are decked with daffodils,</div>
<div class="verse">I hail the new reviving year,</div>
<div class="verse">And soothing hope my bosom fills.</div>
<div class="verse">The lambkin bleating on the plain,</div>
<div class="verse">The swallow seen with gladdened eye,</div>
<div class="verse">The welcome cuckoo’s merry strain,</div>
<div class="verse">Proclaim the joyful summer nigh.”</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>It was the second week in April, and the
last day of the season, that we jogged slowly
along the road to the meet. The season had
been unusually forward, and the air was
fragrant with the early violets and primroses,
decking the roadside banks. There was a
haze rolling along the valleys, and the boughs
and branches of the trees, now unfolding their
luxuriant and freshest green, were glittering
with myriads of dew-drops, flashing in the
light of the young spring morn.</p>

<p>Punctuality being the standing order with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span>
our Squire, Will often consulted his watch to
regulate our pace, so that we should be at the
fixture exactly at the time named; and as we
approached Duvale village, the church clock
was striking the hour of ten. Turning on to
a patch of green, where a few geese and a
lonely dejected-looking donkey cropped the
meagre herbage, and a host of round-faced
chubby children played, and madly screamed
with joy to see us arrive, we formed a group
around Will’s horse in eager expectation of
the Squire’s coming. The hum of the last
stroke had scarcely ceased, when the sharp
pit-a-pat of a horse’s feet was heard, and
immediately afterwards the Squire came
cantering up, accompanied by three or four
of his friends.</p>

<p>I was glad to see that the field comprised
those only who hunted regularly with us, and,
although many of them were generally too
anxious to get forward, and thought of little
more than showing well in the first flight, yet
there was no fear of much unsportsman-like
conduct on their part.</p>

<p>Without the loss of a minute we trotted off
to our first draw, a long and narrow belt of
fir trees, with thick brushwood at the bottom,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span>
which proved a blank. We then drew a line
of small spinnies, and in one of them, at the
furthest end up wind, I saw two or three old
hounds flourish their sterns at one spot, and
before I could reach it, a first-seasoned one,
like myself, called Boaster, threw his tongue.</p>

<p>“Gently, Boaster,” hallooed Will, giving
an admonitory crack of the whip. “Gently,
Boaster.”</p>

<p>Upon pushing my nose among the group, I
inhaled a slight scent of <em>the</em> animal; but it
was very faint.</p>

<p>“It’s a stale drag,” said Trimbush, “and
he may be twenty miles away by this time.
Who opened on it?” asked he.</p>

<p>“Boaster,” replied I, fearing that he
might think me guilty of the puppy-like
deed.</p>

<p>“Then I tell you this, youngster,” rejoined
the old hound, “if you’re so free with
your tongue, you’ll have reason to wish, some
day, that it had been cut out at your birth.”</p>

<p>“But it was the right scent,” expostulated
Boaster; “and how could I tell if it was stale
or not?”</p>

<p>“Then your nose is not worth a damn,”
returned Trimbush, passionately. “At any<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span>
rate,” continued he, “you might have a little
decent modesty, and not take precedency of
<em>us</em>.”</p>

<p>Trimbush placed a very strong emphasis
upon the “us,” and Boaster, ashamed and
abashed, drooped his stern, and, for the
remainder of the day, did not again attempt
playing first fiddle.</p>

<p>We were now taken about two miles, and
thrown into a large rambling cover, composed
of patches of gorse, bramble, and nutwood.</p>

<p>“I saw some fresh billets just now, sir,”
said Ned Adams to the Squire.</p>

<p>“Where?”</p>

<p>“Just under that ash, and on the edge of
the gap, sir,” replied the second whip.</p>

<p>“Very well,” rejoined his master.</p>

<p>I was close to Dashwood and Trimbush,
when both stopped suddenly, and simultaneously
throwing up their heads, both gave
long bell-like notes, which rung and echoed
far and near.</p>

<p>“Hark to Trimbush!” cried Will Sykes;
“hark to Dashwood, hark, hark!” and then,
as I and others picked up the grateful scent,
and threw our tongues cheerfully, he hallooed,
“Hark together, hark!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span></p>

<p>Now we closed; now we went full swing.
Up went Tom Holt’s cap.</p>

<p>“It’s a vixen, sir,” I heard him say.</p>

<p>“Stop them, then,” replied our master,
“and let her go. We can’t spare a bitch fox
now.”</p>

<p>Out we crashed; but Tom charged at our
heads, cracking his awful double thong, and
being well mounted, the most daring of us
knew that it was hopeless to endeavour to get
away with her. Boaster was the only one who
made a lame attempt, and he instantly got a
cut across the loins, which sent him flying
back into cover howling most piteously.</p>

<p>“It’s a hard case,” said Trimbush,
doggedly, “to be whipped off in this
fashion, and I don’t think it’s fair. When
too late to kill vixens,” continued he,
with little apparent inclination to draw the
cover again, “why not give up hunting
altogether?”</p>

<p>“You would be the last to carry out that
principle, I’m sure,” observed Rubicon.</p>

<p>“I don’t know that,” rejoined the old
hound. “It’s very tantalizing and dispiriting
to be stopped the moment a fox, which we
have taken the trouble and pains to find,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span>
breaks away. We meet with enough
disappointments which can’t be avoided,
throughout a season, without having such as
these thrust upon us.”</p>

<p>“But we are continually so stopped in cub-hunting,”
returned Rubicon.</p>

<p>“That’s quite a different matter,” said
Trimbush. “There are then two or three
brace of ’em afoot, perhaps, and they get
headed back as well as ourselves. We can
always reckon, too, upon plenty of sport at
that time; but at the end of a season, when
foxes are thin, it&mdash;&mdash;”</p>

<p>At this moment I winded the glorious scent
again, and, throwing my tongue, bang a great
dark-coloured fox went across a ride. Trimbush
cut short his harangue, and, forgetting
the cause of his anger, flew to my side, and
away we rattled.</p>

<p>“Have at him!” hallooed Will. “Have
at him, darlings! Yoiks, have at him!”</p>

<p>Up went Tom Holt’s cap again.</p>

<p>“All right, sir,” I heard him say. “As
fine a dog-fox as ever was seen.”</p>

<p>Through the furze we dashed, and out
burst more than two-thirds of us close to his
brush.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span></p>

<p><i>Twang, twang, twang, twang</i>, went Will’s
horn.</p>

<p>“For’ard, for’ard!” hallooed Ned Adams:
“get to him hounds, get to him! For’ard!
for’<em>ard</em>!”</p>

<p>For fifteen minutes we flew along at our
best pace, over a country, without even a bush
strong enough to hold him. The scent being
breast high, we cut out some of the sharpest
work for the best and boldest to ride to us.</p>

<p>“His point’s the main earth at the Curby
brake,” said Trimbush; “but old ‘fox-fix’
has been there with his spade and pickaxe,
I’ll be bound.”</p>

<p>The cover spoken of by my companion was
quickly gained, and on the slope of a steep
bank, thickly twined with the stubborn roots
of some neighbouring oaks, we ran straight
to the mouth of a closed earth.</p>

<p>“Ha, ha!” laughed Trimbush, “I said
so. If he had poked his nose underground
here, they might have dug for a week to no
purpose.”</p>

<p>We now carried it through the brake, and,
sinking some rising ground, entered Bushford
Woodlands. Here the small enclosures and
thick fences began to tell both upon us and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span>
field, and instead of carrying a head in one
close and compact body, many began to tail
and string in the rear. As near as I can guess
we had ran ten miles from the find without
the check of a moment, when we threw up at
a gate leading into a road. We flew over it,
and saw an old woman with a red cloak on,
screaming most lustily; but whether from
fright or joy I could not discover.</p>

<p>To the left we went, but not making it out,
turned short to the right, when Will blowing
a “come-to-me,” off we swept to the
summons.</p>

<p>“I saw it, sir,” I heard the woman
shriek; “I saw it, sir, as plain as the nose on
your face, jump over the gate and then jump
back again. And it’s put me all in such a
twitter that&mdash;&mdash;”</p>

<p>A <em>twang, twang</em>, from the horn, drowned
the conclusion of the old woman’s delivery,
and, trying back, we were quickly on his line
again, and making play at topping speed.</p>

<p>“I thought,” observed Trimbush, “that
the old woman had headed him; but it doesn’t
do for us to try back until we have made our
casts good, right and left. It is quite correct
for a huntsman to do so if he learns from any<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span>
cause that the fox has been headed; but
we should not speculate upon chances or
accidents.”</p>

<p>We now carried it over some deep fallows,
and, being very dry and flying, we had to
pick through with great care. It was
remarkable to see the difference between the
old steady hounds and the young and eager
ones in these difficulties. With their noses on
the ground, the pilots of the pack felt for the
scent, here and there and held it forward with
patience and perseverance, while the too
ardent and flashy ones dashed in all
directions, with as much notion of the line of
the fox, as that of the rook flying over their
heads. After picking through the ploughs we
were enabled to up with our heads again,
cluster, and go full swing over some small
grass fields to a village road, where unfortunately,
some dung had been recently carted,
and the horrid smell made me feel ready to
vomit. Trimbush felt along the road a considerable
distance, as it was down wind,
before he was satisfied that this was not his
line, and then turning up, made about as wide
a cast, but to no purpose.</p>

<p>“I wonder,” said the old hound, both vexed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span>
and puzzled, “if he has been headed back?”</p>

<p>Rubicon, who must have had a remarkably
strong stomach, now jumped upon the steaming,
reeking, stinking heap, and, plunging
his nose under a loose portion at the top, drew
out the fox by a hind leg. In an instant we
flew to his assistance, and for the first and
last time in my life, I helped to kill a fox on
a dung heap.</p>

<p>“Well!” said our master, wiping his bald
head, and looking as pleased as at any period
that I ever saw him, “we wind up the season
with a glorious finish. We were too far
behind to see,” he continued; “but of course
they must have viewed him into the manure.”</p>

<p>“No doubt, sir,” replied Will, “or he
would most likely have beaten us.”</p>

<p>“It only shows,” rejoined the Squire, “to
what improbable shifts a sinking fox will have
resort. How often men’s brains are racked to
discover the why and wherefore that a fox
<em>could</em> have beaten their judgment and experience,
when, perhaps, he may be close to their
elbows without the smallest blame to be
attached to either hounds or them for his
escape.”</p>

<p>“Or merit to his craft and cunning, you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span>
might have added,” said Trimbush. “For
when a fox sinks, not only his physical
strength is expended, but his mental powers
die with it. He is in such a mortal fright,
that he cannot think; but like a blown chicken,
pokes his head into the first hiding place
which presents itself.”</p>

<p>As we were trotting quietly homewards,
as proud as peacocks, I saw Trimbush tip
Rubicon over the nose with his stern, and drew
him from the body on one side of the road.</p>

<p>“Be candid,” said he, in a half whisper.
“How was it that you made the fox out in
that beastly manure?”</p>

<p>“I winded him,” rejoined Rubicon, with
a sly grin.</p>

<p>“Pshaw!” replied the old hound. “It
was impossible.”</p>

<p>“Well, well!” interrupted Rubicon, “I
admit it. The fact is I jumped on the heap
for a very different purpose, and as I did so,
I felt something move under my feet. A
thought struck me&mdash;&mdash;”</p>

<p>“As it did me,” interrupted Trimbush,
“before commencing your explanation. We
owe the kill to chance.”</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span></p>

<h2 id="CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII.</h2>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“Now the hill, the hedge, are green,</div>
<div class="verse">Now the warbler’s throat’s in tune,</div>
<div class="verse">Blithsome is the verdant scene,</div>
<div class="verse">Brightened by the beams of noon.”</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>It was a sultry summer’s day, and Trimbush
and myself were luxuriating under the
wide-spreading and deep shade of a walnut
tree growing near the kennel. Five or six of
our companions, on the free list, like ourselves,
were lounging about in the coolest
spots, and their only occasional signs of life,
as they laid upon the ground, consisted in
brushing the buzzing flies from their nostrils
and hides, and, now and then, making a snap
at their enemies. Wearied, at length, with
my own laziness, I made an effort to draw<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span>
Trimbush into conversation, by asking him
the cause of kennel lameness.</p>

<p>The old hound rolled on his side, and giving
a wide yawn, stretched out his legs as far as
possible, with his stern stiffly turned over his
back.</p>

<p>“That’s comfortable,” said he, “very.
And so you wish to learn the cause of one of
the greatest afflictions that can visit us?”</p>

<p>“Yes,” rejoined I, “it is my wish to
know everything concerning our interests.
For if mankind be the proper study for man,
so must hounds and hunting be the proper
study for me.”</p>

<p>“A sensible remark,” returned my companion;
“and as you are always ready to
listen, there can be no doubt but that you’ll
attain proficiency.”</p>

<p>“I’m greatly obliged for your encouragement,”
added I.</p>

<p>“I remember two seasons ago,” said Trimbush,
“hearing Tom Holt read aloud from
<i>The Sporting Magazine</i> a remarkably sensible
article on the subject you wish to be informed
about, and it made so deep an impression that
I can now repeat it nearly word for word.”</p>

<p>“I’m all attention,” I replied.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span></p>

<p>My friend cleared his throat, and then
commenced.</p>

<p>“Peculiar conditions of the atmosphere
have generally the effect of some disorders,
which attack men and animals to so great an
extent as to be denominated the prevailing
diseases of the time&mdash;such as cholera, typhus
fever, influenza, and many others. These
results are not always contemporary with the
weather, which in reality produces them.
Indeed, they most frequently make their
appearance some little time after a change of
temperature has taken place, by which certain
influences have been established, which become
the sources of disorder in the functions of
animal economy. Such disorders as those
which are peculiar to any particular districts
cannot fail to receive an impulse from such a
season as the one we have lately experienced.
Kennel lameness ranks among the number as
likely to be one over which these powers may
be expected to have a very considerable
control. Much has been said and much has
been written on the subject, and many
possibilities have been suggested, and
remedies proposed, which have so little reason
for their basis, that it appears extraordinary<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span>
how they could ever have entered the brain of
reasonable and thinking men: but before
going into a detail, I will introduce a few
remarks on endemic diseases, for the purpose
of more clearly establishing the point, ‘that
certain situations produce the complaint, and
will for ever be the cause of its continuance so
long as those situations are preserved’; and
also that certain modes of treatment are the
causes of its prevailing in some instances
with a greater degree of inveteracy. Indeed
I have no hesitation in declaring, that bad
management will, even on healthy sites,
produce a modified degree of rheumatism,
which assumes the name of kennel lameness.</p>

<p>“There are certain diseases which afflict
the human body, and which are found to rage
in particular localities, termed endemic.
They are attributable to some peculiarities of
the soil, the air, the food, and in some
instances of the habits of the inhabitants.
Poverty, want of cleanliness, and, the consequence
of poverty, bad and insufficient food
and raiment, may be enumerated among the
most conspicuous causes. A removal of them
will naturally be followed by the disappearance
of the endemic. So with hounds: if a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span>
slight degree of rheumatism exists, produced
by irregular treatment, alter the treatment,
and if those already affected do not recover,
the list of invalids will not be augmented by
its appearance in fresh subjects. Some may
oppose me on this point, by observing, if bad
management produces the complaint in a
slight degree, may it not do so in a greater?
To this I answer distinctly, No; inasmuch as
in some kennels the disorder has never been
known to emanate, but that unsound hounds
brought from other kennels have recovered:
besides which, there are many kennels in
which the disorder rages where the hounds are
treated precisely upon the same system as in
establishments which are perfectly free from
it.</p>

<p>“It is well known to what an extent
various diseases, such as cutaneous complaints
and scurvy, have identified themselves
with peculiar situations, more especially after
certain seasons. Medical practitioners are of
opinion, that, for the thoroughly comprehending
the nature and the cure of endemical
diseases, an accurate study of topography is
essentially necessary. The inhabitants of
countries or places where diseases prevail<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span>
endemically are very often exempted from
other serious indispositions; and the natives
of a country or district frequently become
inured by habit to influences which at once
manifest their power over newly-imported
strangers, especially in tropical regions. In
countries inhabited by different races of men,
the same circumstances do not always produce
the same effects upon different varieties. The
water of the Seine produces disorder in the
Londoner, to which the Parisian, who is
accustomed to it, is exempt. The treatment
also of similar diseases often requires to be
very different in consequence of the locality
where it appears, and also the constitution
and habits of the patient.</p>

<p>“The miasmata, or particles which
emanate from the surface of the earth,
produce marked effects upon the human
constitution in those places where they
prevail. The districts where they are most
conspicuous are the marshes, fens and
swamps in Lincolnshire, Cambridgeshire, and
Essex: intermitting fevers and agues are
the consequence. Although marshy districts
are pre-eminently capable of engendering
miasmata, they are not exclusively so: the result<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span>
of numerous observations proves that the
circumstances essential to this phenomenon
are the presence of water, or moisture, and the
influence of solar heat: when the quantity of
water is great at any particular time, the
effects do not manifest themselves until it
subsides. Many circumstances are supposed
to influence the development of the effects of
these exhalations. It is also asserted, that it
has sometimes been carried to considerable
distances, to situations naturally healthy, by
currents of air. This is a consideration of
vast importance in forming an opinion upon
the fact of kennel lameness being indigenous
to certain situations, and shows most clearly
how little benefit can be anticipated in those
cases where the malady is severe, by the
interposition of impervious concretes, asphaltum,
and such like preparations.</p>

<p>“It has been asserted that attacks of
paralysis have been mistaken for kennel lameness.
How such mistakes can have originated
with any persons conversant with the
characteristics of the latter malady, it is
difficult to conceive, unless that term is
intended to comprehend all disorders in which
lameness is apparent. If so, ere long, we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span>
shall have hounds, when lamed by thorns or
bruises, included in the list. Kennel lameness,
properly so termed, is intended to
convey the idea of a malady whose distinctive
symptoms are so identically similar to
rheumatism, that there appears scarcely any
visible reason why it should be distinguished
by any other term; but as it has now acquired
a standing in the huntsman’s nomenclature,
it would be presumption to attempt to displace
it: nevertheless, the term rheumatism would
be quite as applicable and more universally
comprehended. Before a physiologist pronounces
to what class a disorder belongs, and
before a physician attempts to prescribe a
remedy for its cure, it is requisite to
investigate the symptoms which exist. Now
the symptoms of paralysis and rheumatism
are so distinctly at variance, that it is utterly
impossible to fall under a mistake. Paralysis
is a nervous affection, in which the nerves,
acting on the muscles, interrupt their motion,
relaxing their tone and fibre, and very
frequently distorting some particular limb.
Rheumatism is a rigid or contracted state of
the muscles, attended with a slight inflammatory
condition of the tissue which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span>
covers the muscles, having the effect,
when the animal has been some time at
rest, of creating a certain degree of
adhesion. Thus a hound badly affected
with kennel lameness, on first being taken
out, is so stiff and sore as scarcely to be able
to move&mdash;a state in which I have seen so
many, that the remembrance is accompanied
with feelings of commiseration and pity that
would prompt me to any trouble or exertion
that would produce the effect of subduing the
complaint. When hounds thus disordered
have been in motion a short time, so as to
increase the circulation of the blood, the
extreme rigidity or stiffness goes off to a
certain extent, dependent upon the violence of
the attack. But paralytic affections would
not be attended with any such results:
exercise would rather tend to increase than
to improve the capabilities of action.</p>

<p>“I have very little doubt but the severe
work which staghounds occasionally undergo,
and the numerous changes of temperature
which they have to contend against, are
causes for the aggravation of this malady. A
foxhound generally has some preparatory
exercise, besides the exertion of going to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span>
covert, which latter is equivalent to the staghound
going to the place of meeting. The
former has to draw for and to find his fox, in
which effort his powers are more gradually
brought into play, and the circulation of his
blood is more rationally increased; but the
staghound is laid on to the scent of his game
without any preparatory excitement of the
system, when he immediately goes to work,
straining every nerve in his ardour for the
chase, and very frequently maintains those
efforts during the period of several hours;
and frequently, when in an evident state
of exhaustion, a time when immersion is
dangerous, he plunges into rivers, canals, or
lakes&mdash;places which stags have such inordinate
propensities for when severely pressed.</p>

<p>“The high and stimulating food, which is
no doubt found necessary to maintain condition
during a long chase, is another cause
for symptoms of kennel lameness making
their appearance with staghounds. The
circumstance of the canine species not throwing
off perspirable matter through the pores
of the skin, appears to be a very powerful
reason why they are so susceptible of
rheumatic affections, and more especially that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span>
it should assume a chronic character when
once introduced into the system. It is asserted
that the dog perspires through the tongue;
admitting that as a fact, it is to a very
trifling extent, and not equivalent to the vast
effusion of violent perspiration which must
ensue from the laborious exertions of the
chase, providing a hound generates an
equivalent proportion according to his bulk
that either a man or a horse does under similar
efforts; besides which, making its escape from
one part only, the general relief to the animal
cannot be equivalent to that which is
experienced by those animals who have outlets
in the immediate proximity of almost every
muscle. It is very evident that a great portion
of the extraneous fluid, which in some animals
flies off in perspiration, is by the hound voided
in urine. The vast quantity which he passes
is a proof of this, and it is a reason why
medicines acting upon the urinary functions
should be resorted to, in cases of kennel lameness,
as a palliative.</p>

<p>“Seeing the announcement some months
ago that ‘our right trusty and well-beloved
friend’ and faithful correspondent, <span class="smcap">Ringwood</span>,
had forwarded his opinions and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span>
suggestions on the subject of Kennel Lameness,
and appreciating most highly his
experience on sporting subjects, I was buoyed
up with the hope that his discoveries would
have thrown some new light on the case;
but was much disappointed at reading his
recommendations to try the effect of fires in
the lodging-rooms. Knowing them to have
been tried by Sir B. Graham, Mr. Boycott,
also in the kennels occupied by Mr. Nicol, I
believe also by Lord Kintore, with prejudicial
consequences, it only remains to intimate that
the practice is incompatible. Moreover, the
diuretic tendency which it produces, in
encouraging hounds to perform their evacuations
in the lodging-rooms, instead of in the
yards, is a reason why the adoption of fires,
however secured, in kennels, cannot be carried
out consistently with the usual discipline and
necessary observance of cleanliness. One of
the most positive cases in proof, that on some
occasions kennel lameness proceeds entirely
from the unhealthy situation of their habitation,
is that of Mr. Foljambe. With the
utmost attention to kennel management, a
long series of years passed with nothing but
disappointment and vexation to crown the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span>
most liberal and judicious experiments.
Nothing that human skill could suggest or
accomplish was left untried, until at length
it was determined to remove the hounds to a
kennel at another part of the country, where,
under precisely the same management, they
are sound and well.</p>

<p>“In conversation with a friend a short time
since, a M. F. H., he made the remark, that
if I could make the discovery of a cure for
this disorder, I should be entitled to honors
and distinctions too superfluous to mention.
My reply was simply this: ‘A remedy has
been discovered, not by myself, for I desire no
merit which I am not entitled to, but it is
clearly proved that removal to a healthy site
will effect all that is desired.’ The removal
must not, however, be undertaken without
mature consideration, in order to ascertain
if the proposed new situation is perfectly free
from the causes which produce the disorder.
Clay soils may be denominated the most
eligible; light sandy soils and light soils on
chalk, are the worst. Any attempt to cure
the complaint on a situation which so
evidently engenders it, is like trying to heal a
wound while the substance which created it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span>
remains within. Removal on the first
discovery that the kennel is so located as to
be injurious will most assuredly be found the
most satisfactory, and, in the end, the most
economical determination.”</p>

<p>I managed to keep myself from a most
seductive doze during my companion’s somewhat
prosy delivery; but scarcely had he
finished, than I was in the land of dreams,
and toying with</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“The children of an idle brain,</div>
<div class="verse">Begot of nothing but vain fantasy.”</div>
</div>
</div>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span></p>

<h2 id="CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV.</h2>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“We still have slept together,</div>
<div class="verse">Rose at an instant, learn’d, play’d, eat together;</div>
<div class="verse">And wheresoe’er we went, like Juno’s swans,</div>
<div class="verse">Still we went coupled, and inseparable.”</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>It was late in August, and the weather so
sultry, that we scarcely knew how to bear with
the intense heat. Some did nothing but lap
the water, always running in a clear fine
stream, from the fountain in the court, and
assuaged their thirst by continual sipping.
Others drank deeply, but seldom; and all,
more or less, evinced the feverish suffering
they endured.</p>

<p>I was lying in a shady corner of the court
one day about noontide, when I happened to
notice a hound of the name of Gameboy go
two or three times towards the fountain, and
then turn from it with a slight shudder.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span></p>

<p>Rising from the ground, I went towards
him and said, “What’s the matter?”</p>

<p>“I don’t know,” replied he, “but I feel
very strange. I’m dreadfully thirsty, and yet
cannot go near the water.”</p>

<p>I now perceived that his eyes looked dull
and leaden, and his body shook, as if every
nerve and sinew were shattered and unstrung.</p>

<p>“Perhaps you have eaten something that
has disagreed with you,” returned I.</p>

<p>“No,” added he; “I picked up a bone in
our walk this morning, but that couldn’t
injure me.”</p>

<p>“What’s that wound on your shoulder,”
I asked.</p>

<p>“A mere scratch,” said he, “I got from a
cur three days ago. He flew at me while
passing a cottage garden, and just touched
me on the skin.”</p>

<p>This intelligence struck me with the most
inexpressible uneasiness, and I went to Trimbush,
who was asleep, and waking him,
repeated all I had seen and heard.</p>

<p>In a moment the old hound jumped from his
posture of indolence, and approaching Gameboy,
regarded him minutely.</p>

<p>“Are you unwell?” said he.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span></p>

<p>“Yes,” replied Gameboy; “I never felt so
queer before.”</p>

<p>“Are you thirsty?”</p>

<p>“Awfully so,” he rejoined, “and yet
cannot drink.”</p>

<p>“But why?” asked Trimbush.</p>

<p>Gameboy gave an involuntary shudder, and
said, “The sight, and even the noise of water,
is more painful than I can describe.”</p>

<p>“Let me see you make an effort to go near
it,” responded my companion. “Perseverance
may overcome this, seemingly, nervous affection.”</p>

<p>In accordance with the desire, poor Gameboy
turned his head towards the fountain,
and endeavoured to approach it; but had
scarcely taken a stride in the direction, when
a spasm appeared to seize him, and with a
howl he rushed cowering to the farthest
corner of the court.</p>

<p>The attention of the rest of the hounds was
attracted by this, and several were trotting
towards him to learn the cause, when Trimbush
interposed by saying, “Stay&mdash;<em>he’s
mad</em>.”</p>

<p>As if each had received a shock of electricity,
the whole stood still and mute,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span>
regarding in silent horror their miserable
companion. It is impossible to convey the
effect produced upon the communication made
thus briefly by Trimbush. Every one seemed
not to know what to do or say, until Gameboy,
with a white thick foam dropping from his
jaw, sprung upon his feet and rushed towards
them. A wild bull would not have scattered
us more completely. Frenzied with fear, we
flew from the maddened wretch, who rushed
staggering at everything in his way, and
snapping his jaws with that fury which the
mad can only show.</p>

<p>“Get from him,” said Trimbush, in a
thick husky voice, and exhibiting the greatest
terror. “Pray get from him. It’s death if
he touches ye.”</p>

<p>The noise in the kennel now became furious.
All were stricken with fright, and the howling
and cries were most appalling.</p>

<p>It could scarcely have continued more than
a minute, however, when the stentorian
voices of Will Sykes and Ned Adams were
heard, calling for “quiet,” accompanied by
the cracks of a heavy thong.</p>

<p>“Thanks be to the saints!” exclaimed
Trimbush, “assistance is at hand.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span></p>

<p>Immediately afterwards both entered the
court, and the huntsman glancing round, said
reproachfully, “What’s all this about, eh?”</p>

<p>At this juncture, Mark the feeder made his
appearance, and his eye instantly fell upon
Gameboy. I never shall forget the old man’s
countenance, the moment he saw the hound.
A ghastly paleness came over it, and he
looked almost stunned with the sight.</p>

<p>“Great heaven!” ejaculated he, holding
up both his hands. “Great heaven, Will,
there’s madness among ’em!”</p>

<p>“What!” said the huntsman, his question
sounding like a sharp expression of pain.</p>

<p>“Madness,” repeated Mark, “as sure as
we live.”</p>

<p>With staring eyes, the huntsman and
second whip examined Gameboy at a short
distance and, after a slight pause, the
former exclaimed, “’Tis true! Run, Ned,
and bring the Squire.”</p>

<p>“Get in, get in,” hallooed Mark, and
closing the lodging-room door, we were safe
from the attacks of the wretched Gameboy,
who was now left alone in the court.</p>

<p>“Take care,” said Will, retreating towards
the door, “he’s in a most rabid state.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span></p>

<p>“I wonder where it will end,” returned
Mark, joining the huntsman’s side by the
door.</p>

<p>“Who can tell?” rejoined Will, bitterly.
“We may lose half of ’em, perhaps.”</p>

<p>“I noticed that he looked rather heavy
about the eyes, for a day or two,” added the
feeder, “but I accounted for it through the
heat.”</p>

<p>“It was only yesterday,” said Will, “that
I gave him a dose of black brimstone and
lard, seeing that he was feverish.”</p>

<p>“It was a mercy no accident occurred to
ye,” responded Mark. “A mere scratch
from a tooth would have&mdash;&mdash;”</p>

<p>“What’s this?” interrupted a well-known
voice, and there stood our master, breathless
and exhausted with the speed he had used in
attending the summons to the fearful scene.</p>

<p>“Gameboy, sir,” replied Will, pointing to
the convulsive and agonized hound, “is mad
beyond a doubt.”</p>

<p>“Are there any more with such symptoms?”
hurriedly asked the squire, scrutinizing the
object of their painful attention and interest.</p>

<p>“We have not had time for a careful
examination, sir,” returned the huntsman;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span>
“but I saw none as we hastily separated
them.”</p>

<p>“You have acted well,” said the Squire,
“and we must continue the same prompt
and sound judgment. Shoot that hound
instantly.”</p>

<p>No sooner was the order given than Mark
produced a long, single-barrelled flint gun,
with which he was in the habit of slaughtering
rats about the precincts of the kennel, and
handed it to Will.</p>

<p>“Do it for me,” whispered he, with a
quivering lip. “I feel quite sick.”</p>

<p>Our feeder hesitated for a second or two;
but after a short struggle with a corresponding
reluctance to become the executioner, he
brought the piece to his shoulder, and drove
the charge crashing through Gameboy’s brain.
Without a perceptible throe of anguish, poor
Gameboy fell lifeless upon the flags, and so
ended, to us, this terrible tragedy.</p>

<p>“Before endeavouring to learn the cause of
the disease in him,” said the Squire, “draft
each hound singly, and let us see whether any
have been bitten by him, or if the least cause
of fear exists that more must be destroyed.”</p>

<p>“I hope not, sir,” returned Will, with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span>
strangely inarticulate voice. “What shall
we do if&mdash;&mdash;”</p>

<p>“It’s useless to talk of what we <em>shall</em> do,”
interrupted his master irritably, “until we
learn what we <em>can</em> do. Draft the hounds.”</p>

<p>One by one was called from the lodging-room
by name, and after minutely examining
the eyes, nose and mouth, every hackle was
rubbed back to see if the slightest recent
abrasion of the skin had been made. At
length it came to my turn, and unfortunately
a scratch made by myself, while brushing a
flea from my neck in the morning, was found
just under my left ear.</p>

<p>“Reload your gun,” said the Squire.</p>

<p>A trembling seized me at these words, so
that I could scarcely stand, and a film spread
itself across my eyes, which nearly blinded me.</p>

<p>“Oh, sir,” exclaimed Will Sykes, “don’t
have him shot yet. It does not look to me
like a bite.”</p>

<p>“But it does to me,” replied his master.
“What think you, Mark?”</p>

<p>The old man divided the hackles with his
thumb and finger, and after a careful
examination pronounced an opinion coinciding
with that of the huntsman.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span></p>

<p>“I know that the hound is a great
favourite with both of ye,” said the Squire,
“and with good reasons. But remember, if
from any false feeling of kindness we spare
one infected, the entire pack may be lost.”</p>

<p>“I wouldn’t do it, sir,” returned Mark.
“I wouldn’t do it, sir,” repeated he, “if he
was my own child, and I thought him bitten.
The intended kindness would be right down
cruelty.”</p>

<p>“Still,” added our master, shaking his
head, “I entertain great doubt as to the
policy of hesitating to take the safer course.
However, let him be shut up by himself and
watched incessantly; and in the event of the
most trifling but certain symptom appearing,
wait for no instructions from me, but shoot
him.”</p>

<p>I was now taken from the court and
subjected to solitary confinement for six
weeks; but as Tom Holt explained the cause
of poor Gameboy’s malady, from having seen
him attacked by the cur, and all the rest being
found free from the smallest likelihood of
inoculation, I was permitted to join my
companions again soon after cub-hunting
commenced. During my involuntary retreat,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span>
Mark paid me the greatest attention, and,
that I might not be low-spirited for want of
company, would often sit upon my bench and
chat to me, and croon snatches of old ballads
to himself. He took me long walks, too, when
his work was done, and altogether the time
was spent much more agreeably than might be
imagined in the gloom of solitude.</p>

<p>Hearty was the welcome upon my
re-appearance in the court, and each of my
friends expressed his warm delight at seeing
me again; although a stranger to our ways and
customs might deem the reception somewhat
churlish, and of the growling mood. However,
we do not ‘use our tongues for the
concealment of our thoughts,’ and if devoid of
the polish of refined manners, we at least
possess an equal proportion of their honesty.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span></p>

<h2 id="CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV.</h2>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“Slow pass’d the night, and now with silver ray,</div>
<div class="verse">The star of morning ushers in the day;</div>
<div class="verse">The shadows fly before the roseate hours,</div>
<div class="verse">And the chill dew hangs glittering on the flowers;</div>
<div class="verse">The pruning-hook or humble spade to wield,</div>
<div class="verse">The cheerful labourer hastens to the field.”</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>“Trifles, light as air,” observed Trimbush,
“are frequently of the most momentous
importance. Who could have thought, now,”
continued he, “that brushing a flea from
your neck would have subjected ye to upwards
of six weeks confinement from all society?”</p>

<p>“Ah!” exclaimed I, “if I could have had
any anticipation of such a result, he might
have sucked my blood till now.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span></p>

<p>“I was in a terrible fright,” rejoined my
friend, “that they were going to stop its
circulation at once.”</p>

<p>“It would have been one of the most
unjustifiable murders ever committed,” returned
I.</p>

<p>“That may be all very true,” added my
companion; “but what compensation would
the act of injustice have been to you?”</p>

<p>“None,” replied I.</p>

<p>“There have been innumerable such-like
mistakes committed,” said Trimbush, “and
never discovered. Fortunately for you, the
suspected had the benefit of the doubt.”</p>

<p>“I consider that the Squire was far too
hasty in his decision regarding myself,”
responded I.</p>

<p>“The convicted always think so,” rejoined
the old hound. “However,” continued he,
“I quite agree in the same opinion. There
was sufficient cause for fearful apprehension,
and it was impossible to calculate the amount
of the calamity. But I do not think that any
kind of fear should be allowed to exaggerate
an injury. To observe sedulous care in
preventing its extension is most wise and
prudent. At the same time, if a hasty panic<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span>
overrules the cooler judgment, the engendered
evil may on evil’s head accumulate ten-fold.
Our master was decidedly wrong in contemplating
having you destroyed with such slight
evidence of questionable inoculation; but he
was quite right in ordering you to be drafted
from the rest. The one was an unweighed,
ill-judged impulse&mdash;the other, a wise precaution.”</p>

<p>“A distinction, with a material difference,”
I observed.</p>

<p>“Yes,” replied he, “beyond the shadow of
a doubt. I once heard,” resumed my friend,
“of a M. F. H. having his entire pack
destroyed, in consequence of a couple-and-a-half
showing symptoms of hydrophobia&mdash;or,
as we should say, in more intelligible
language, a dread of water. Nothing could be
more wanton or unjustifiable, and as well
might an entire community of human beings
be doomed to perish in consequence of one or
more of its members becoming insane, as fifty
or sixty couple of hounds, from the same
cause.”</p>

<p>“Were there any other doubtful cases
besides myself?” I inquired.</p>

<p>“No,” replied Trimbush. “All were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span>
turned over with the greatest scrutiny; but
nothing suspicious appearing, we were
allowed to remain as we were, with a great
additional watch being kept over us. In fact,
Mark, or Will Sykes, was always close by
for a long time after Gameboy’s death; and
if a hound growled even in his dream, one or
the other was at hand in a moment. I never
saw greater vigilance; and I can’t help
thinking that the two kept an eye open for
weeks in their sleep.”</p>

<p>The tramp of three horses approaching the
kennel door put an end to this, our first
conversation since the fatal occurrence of
Gameboy’s death.</p>

<p>“Let ’em out, Mark,” said a well-known
voice, and as the feeder threw back the door,
we scrambled from the court, and ran and
jumped in sportive circles about the horses.
Although in the highest state of excitement,
every tongue was mute, and a slight crack
from Tom Holt’s whip put a considerable
check to the rather violent gambols of a few of
the youngest. It was not quite daylight as
we trotted along between three and four miles;
and as we entered a gate at the end of a
by-lane, who should be standing with his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span>
reins over his arm, and leaning carelessly
against the side of his horse, but our “up-with-the-lark”
and excellent master.</p>

<p>“You are behind your time, William,”
said he, throwing himself into his saddle.</p>

<p>“Begging your pardon, sir,” replied the
huntsman, tugging at the curb chain securing
his thick watch in a very deep fob, “I think
not.”</p>

<p>“By seven minutes,” rejoined his master.</p>

<p>“Quite right, sir,” added Will, looking at
his apoplectic time-keeper. “Seven minutes
have given me the slip.”</p>

<p>“No matter,” returned the Squire; “we
have scarcely light enough as it is.”</p>

<p>The narrow zig-zag lane led on to a large
open grass field, on the borders of which was
one of the best and strongest covers in our
country.</p>

<p>“Who has examined this cover?” asked
the Squire.</p>

<p>“Tom Holt, sir,” replied the huntsman.</p>

<p>“Where did you find most billets?”</p>

<p>“In the field beyond this, sir,” replied the
whipper-in, with a touch of his cap.</p>

<p>“Very good,” rejoined his master. “Then
take them there, William,” continued he,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span>
“and let the puppies see the old hounds feel
for the scent.”</p>

<p>No sooner were we in the field spoken of by
Tom Holt, than, stooping my nose to the
ground, I inhaled that scent, which, from
the first, sent my blood tingling through my
whole body. Several began to hustle, push,
and fling themselves about, and one, named
Harbinger, threw his tongue.</p>

<p>“So-oftly, Harbinger, so-oftly,” said
Will. “You’re as noisy as ever, I see.”</p>

<p>“He’s incorrigible,” replied the Squire.
“Put him away.”</p>

<p>“We shall cure him after a few more
trials, sir, I hope,” rejoined the huntsman,
who could never bear to have one of us
destroyed.</p>

<p>“He should have been cured before this,”
rejoined his master, “and if not removed, he
will render others as bad as himself. I hate
a noisy hound,” continued he, “and I’m
certain no drilling will stop Harbinger from
riot and babbling. There is no vice so contagious
and injurious as the one he possesses
and persists in; and to use further forbearance
in retaining him in the pack would be
most unwise. You know, last season, that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span>
after being flogged three times in one day for
riot at hare, he repeated the fault whenever
he had the chance and thought the whips
could not get at him.”</p>

<p>“He’s to go, then, sir?” said Will.</p>

<p>“The sooner the better,” replied the
Squire. “I wish to have my hounds so
perfect, that if any one of them speaks in
cover, you may be certain that it’s a fox, and
know that he may be cheered without fear of
a mistake. Unless this be the case, what
pleasure can there be to me, as their master,
or satisfaction to you, as their huntsman?”</p>

<p>Will gave no answer, and to account for the
obstinate Harbinger’s fate, all I can say is,
that he was led from the kennel the following
day, with a coil of rope round his neck.</p>

<p>We now carried the drag into the cover,
and Trimbush and myself acknowledged the
scent. Will gave us a cheer that startled
many a pigeon from her roost, and Tom Holt
and Ned Adams spurred right and left, with
orders to head short back every fox that made
his appearance. We got up to our cub, and
drove him through the cover at a slashing
rate. The morning being warm, and the
scent good, there was no breathing time, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span>
the pace soon began to tell upon the family of
foxes, which we were now racing in divided
lots.</p>

<p>“How many of them are there?” inquired
the Squire.</p>

<p>“Not less than two brace and a half, sir,”
replied the huntsman.</p>

<p>“Very good,” rejoined his master. “Let
the vixen go if she will.”</p>

<p>He then galloped towards Tom Holt, and
just as he was about cracking his whip, a
signal from the Squire stopped him.</p>

<p>“Come from this corner,” said he, “and
let the old one go, and as soon as these hounds
come out with the scent, stop them, and take
them to William.”</p>

<p>Scarcely were the instructions given, when
the vixen took advantage of the opportunity,
and broke away at her best pace. The lot
settled to her were stopped, and taken to the
huntsman at the top of a ride, in about the
middle of the cover.</p>

<p>Being joined in one body, we now pressed
our cub most severely; and I viewed him cross
two or three rides with his red rag out, in a
truly sinking condition.</p>

<p>“This cub is very much distressed, sir,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span>
observed the huntsman, “and if they don’t
get one of the others up, for they have all
dropped but this, they’ll soon run into him.”</p>

<p>I now heard a succession of cracks from a
thong, which I knew to be Ned Adams’s.</p>

<p>“He’s headed a fox back,” said Trimbush,
exultingly, “but it isn’t our hunted one.
He’s out&mdash;come along.”</p>

<p>A bunch of us swept from the side of the
cover, and with heads up, dashed across a
field, before Will was aware that we had got
away.</p>

<p>“They’re out, by heaven!” exclaimed the
huntsman. “Where can Ned be?”</p>

<p>“All right,” returned the Squire. “They
broke from the side, and no one’s to blame.”</p>

<p>We carried the scent through the first hedge
into a summerland, and threw up. Will,
coming up, took hold of us rather hastily, and
cast us down wind.</p>

<p>“Gently, William, gently,” said his
master, reprovingly. “You appear to have
forgotten the golden rule of letting them
alone.”</p>

<p>We felt down wind for some distance, but
not making it out, turned up, and as we were
passing the spot where we had jumped<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span>
through the hedge, a thought struck me that
the cub might be skulking in the ditch on the
other side. Popping my nose down, I dropped
into it, and finding instantly that I was right,
I rushed through the brambles, and just as he
was about to spring out, I caught him across
a tender part, and with one pinch he was as
dead as a salt herring.</p>

<p>“Who-whoop!” hallooed the Squire.
“Who-whoop, my beauty!”</p>

<p>To the envy of most of my companions, I
received great praise for this kill from our
master, who seemed not to know how to make
enough of me on our road home.</p>

<p>“Yo-o, Ringwood!” cried he, throwing
me a bit of biscuit from his pocket. “Yo-o,
Ringwood, darling,” and then turning to
Will, said, “What a mercy such a hound as
that was not destroyed through my haste!”</p>

<p>“Ay, sir,” returned the huntsman, with a
knowing shake of the head. “If we have as
good, we’ve none better.”</p>

<p>“Thanks to my instructions,” growled
Trimbush.</p>

<p>“Come, come,” said I, “don’t be jealous
of the little praise I’m getting. You receive
your share.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span></p>

<p>“Jealous?” repeated my companion, with
a proud lash of his stern, “I flatter myself
that I can afford to be <em>generous</em>.”</p>

<p>Seeing, however, that he was a little
annoyed at the attention I received, I said
nothing more, but jogged in silence by the side
of the Squire’s horse.</p>

<p>“By the way,” said our master, addressing
Will, “in speaking of haste, let this
morning be another lesson to you not to take
your hounds off their noses with a sinking
fox. More are lost by that than by any
other mistake committed. There was every
probability of your leaving your fox behind in
the ditch, and then you would have said that
he had headed back to cover. A fresh one
would have been got up, and the error
remained undiscovered. Countless foxes,
booked safe to die, are changed in this
manner, and escape from no other reason than
from taking hounds off their noses. Remember
this, William.”</p>

<p>The huntsman touched his cap, and the
conversation dropped.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span></p>

<h2 id="CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI.</h2>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“For aught I see they are as sick that</div>
<div class="verse">Surfeit with too much, as they that starve with</div>
<div class="verse">Nothing.”</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>We had just finished our breakfast one
morning, and were lying about the court to
assist digestion, when I chanced to remark
that I considered the flesh not quite so nicely
cooked as usual.</p>

<p>“Your palate must be out of order,”
returned Trimbush. “Mark is as good a
boiler as ever heated a copper.”</p>

<p>“Still the material might have been
tough,” said I, “and consequently required
longer boiling.”</p>

<p>“I think not,” rejoined my friend, with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span>
smack of his lips. “My taste may be
depended upon in such important matters.”</p>

<p>“A great deal of one’s comfort depends
upon the cook,” I observed.</p>

<p>“Beyond conception,” emphatically replied
the old hound. “In addition to
which,” he continued, “we can’t perform
our duties unless properly kept. The meal
must be good and old, the flesh well but not
over-boiled, and the broth rich and sweet to
enable us to kill foxes handsomely. Our
strength, speed, and wind, depend upon the
feeding.”</p>

<p>“No doubt about it,” coincided I.</p>

<p>“I remember,” resumed my friend,
“hearing a scientific opinion given on this
important subject to us from a thorough-going
sportsman of the name of Cecil. In a
few words I think more was never spoken.”</p>

<p>“If not too much trouble,” said I, “it
would gratify me to hear it repeated.”</p>

<p>“A pleased and patient listener,” returned
Trimbush, “invariably renders me a willing
speaker.” And after settling himself in a
position of the greatest ease, he commenced
the following philosophical dissertation on
catering for foxhounds:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span></p>

<p>“It is a circumstance very universally
remarked by masters of hounds, huntsmen,
and others who are in the habit of making
observations in the field, that hounds have
appeared sooner blown when running on
moist days during this season than usual.
The cause has evidently arisen from the
peculiar mildness of the weather. Whenever
the atmosphere is damp and warm, it contains
a less quantity of oxygen than when it is dry,
clear, and bracing, and the effect on the
respiratory organs of all animals when
brought into active exertion is very apparent.
Hounds have been observed to lap water when
going to covert more freely on some occasions
than others, which is also a symptom of the
effect of the atmosphere.</p>

<p>“Liebig’s very clever work may be consulted
to advantage, to ascertain how and
why certain causes and effects in the animal
economy are produced; but as many persons
who may be interested on the subject have not
an opportunity of procuring it, I will
introduce a few abbreviated extracts, which
are most particularly connected with the
effects of food and the peculiar conditions of
the atmosphere.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span></p>

<p>“Liebig says, ‘Two animals, which in
equal times take up by means of the lungs
and skin<a name="FNanchor_2" id="FNanchor_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> unequal quantities of oxygen,
consume quantities of the same nourishment
which are unequal in the same ratio.</p>

<div class="footnotes">
<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_2" id="Footnote_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> As hounds do not perspire through the skin, I
apprehend they do not consume oxygen through
that medium: hence a reason why the efforts of
the lungs are so laborious when protracted exertions
call them into increased action.</p>
</div>
</div>

<p>“‘The consumption of oxygen in equal
times may be expressed by the number of
respirations: it is clear that in the same
individual the quantity of nourishment
required must vary with the force and
number of the respirations.</p>

<p>“‘A child, in whom the organs of respiration
are naturally very active, requires food
oftener than an adult, and bears hunger less
easily. A bird deprived of food dies on the
third day, while a serpent, with its sluggish
respiration, can live without food three
months or longer.</p>

<p>“‘The number of respirations is less in a
state of rest than during exercise or work.
The quantity of food necessary in both
conditions must vary in the same ratio.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span></p>

<p>“‘The quantity of oxygen inspired is also
affected by the temperature and density of
the atmosphere.</p>

<p>“‘It is no difficult matter in warm
climates to study moderation in eating, and
men can bear hunger for a long time under the
Equator, but cold and hunger united very
soon exhaust the body.’</p>

<p>“Liebig also states, ‘That the quantity of
food is regulated by the number of respirations,
by the temperature of the air, and by
the amount of heat given off to the surrounding
medium.’</p>

<p>“From the foregoing remarks, it will be
seen how great an influence food has upon
animals called upon to exert such violent
labour as foxhounds are. The comparisons
of the duration of life, when deprived of
food, between the bird and the serpent, I
apprehend, relates to birds whose nature it
is to feed upon grain only, because the
carnivorous birds live much longer without
food, their respiration being slower: and I
infer by this that the power of endurance in
hounds, and their perfection of wind and
condition, are regulated by feeding them with
a due proportion of flesh, which, prepared by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span>
being boiled, is converted at once into blood.</p>

<p>“All animals partaking of a mixed diet,
partly of grain, will be greatly influenced in
their respiratory organs by the proportions
which are given to them and the state of the
atmosphere. The quality of the blood being
regulated by the quantity and the quality of
food consumed, its capability of passing
through the lungs is governed. When an
animal has partaken largely of food which
renders the blood of that character as to cause
the consumption of a great quantity of oxygen
in its passage through the lungs, and the
atmosphere is deficient of that important gas&mdash;which
is always the case in close damp
weather, such as is occasionally experienced
during the winter&mdash;it follows, as a matter of
course, that hounds, and all such animals,
will quickly evince symptoms of distress, or,
familiarly speaking, will become blown, as the
causes which produce that effect predominate.</p>

<p>“In hot climates man consumes very little,
if any, animal food; in cold ones, scarcely
anything else: and the Esquimaux will partake
of blubber, animal oils, or fat&mdash;a food
nauseating and disgusting to the people of
another climate.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span></p>

<p>“With these facts it becomes apparent
how the quantity and quality of food require
to be regulated by circumstances, especially
on the day before hunting.</p>

<p>“There are few, if any, masters of hounds
or huntsmen who are not aware of the
necessity of giving small proportions of flesh
during the warm weather at the commencement
of the season, and again in the spring,
when such a condition of the atmosphere
generally prevails as that which we so
universally experience during the months of
November, December, and January. Without
a certain proportion of flesh, it is well
known that hounds cannot work; that is to
say, they cannot go through the fatigues of a
quick burst or a protracted chase; at the same
time, too large a quantity will render them
gross and plethoric, consequently incapable of
exertion.</p>

<p>“As the quality of the food depends in a
very great degree upon the manner in which
it is prepared, that becomes a subject worthy
of considerable attention. It is a practice in
many kennels to boil the flesh to a most
unnecessary and prejudicial extent, but it is a
custom which cannot be too strongly objected<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span>
to. Flesh over-boiled is divested of its
nutritive properties in a very great degree.
It may be remarked by some, those who are
advocates for excessive boiling, that if the
nutritive properties are extracted from the
flesh, they are contained in the broth, and <em>that</em>
broth being given to the hounds, the nutritious
principles are still preserved&mdash;an argument
which I can by no means agree to.</p>

<p>“Like man, the hound is found to thrive
best upon food composed of flesh and grain
combined, consequently a comparison between
the two may with propriety be introduced.
When a man undergoes the ordeal of training
for an athletic engagement, the animal food
which he partakes of is only subject to the
process of cooking in a moderate degree;
overdone meat is studiously avoided. To the
valetudinarian broth is prescribed as affording
light nourishment with a moderate
expenditure of the powers of digestion, but
is never called in aid to form a principal
portion of the aliment for the human subject
at a time when great exertion is required. It
is always found that broth creates thirst with
us, and there is no doubt it has the same
effect on the hound when given to a great extent,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span>
more especially when made very strong.</p>

<p>“I must observe, that I am by no means
about to recommend the disuse of broth in the
kennel; but I wish to point out the propriety
of giving it in moderate quantities, and of
depending upon the flesh which is given for
containing the bulk of nourishment, and
giving it in that state when it contains the
greatest quantity. It is an impression with
some huntsmen, that by boiling the flesh to
an excessive degree, the bad qualities are
extracted&mdash;that is to say, if the horse had any
disease about him, that the humours would be
extracted from the flesh; but then it must be
remembered that they would be contained in
the broth, in which state they would be quite
as injurious, or perhaps more so.</p>

<p>“At the time when an animal is performing
great exertion, it is essentially requisite that
his stomach should contain but a small
quantity of food, but that food should be of a
nutritious character and easy of digestion.
The practice that I would recommend, and it
is one borne out by the reasons already
assigned, as well as by experiment, is, not to
give hounds any broth at all in their food
<em>on the day before</em> hunting.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span></p>

<p>“The pudding must be reduced with pure
water which has been boiled, and the usual
allowance, or perhaps, on some occasions, a
trifling addition to the accustomed portion of
flesh must of course be given; by this method
of feeding, hounds will most assuredly do
their work far better than when a quantity
of broth with very little or no flesh is given;
a custom adopted in some kennels with very
bad results. From such treatment, hounds
will be observed light of muscle, big in their
bodies, and incapable of running up at the
conclusion of a severe day. By adopting the
recommendation of substituting water which
has been boiled, for broth, on the day before
hunting, it will be found that hounds will not
evince an equal degree of thirst by constantly
lapping on their road to cover, nor will they
be so soon blown in chase.”</p>

<p>“There,” ejaculated Trimbush, upon the
completion of his task, “that’s what I call
giving the ‘why’s’ for all the ‘wherefores.’”</p>

<p>Clever and philosophical as I deemed this
delivery to be, I had become somewhat
wearied with it, and in order to divert my
companion from steeping his senses in forgetfulness,
which his blinking eyelids bore<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span>
evidence was fast approaching, I asked him
if he had ever turned his attention to the
poetry as well as to the practical details of
hunting.</p>

<p>“What do you mean?” inquired Trimbush,
with a sleepy stare of surprise.</p>

<p>“Simply, whether you have made the
attempt of earning for yourself that fame,”
replied I, “which I intend gaining for
myself?”</p>

<p>“I’m quite in the dark,” rejoined my
companion, testily.</p>

<p>“Well, then,” returned I, “to be more
explicit, I mean to let my tongue appear <em>in
print</em>.”</p>

<p>“In print!” exclaimed Trimbush, husky
with surprise. “How?”</p>

<p>“Ah,” added I, quoting an early reply to
one of my interrogatories, “there are many
things as clear to our vision as the sunshine
at noon, and yet their causes are hid in
impenetrable darkness.”</p>

<p>“Well, well!” added my friend, “I
don’t wish to appear inquisitive, but if you
should mix me up in your&mdash;your&mdash;”</p>

<p>“Don’t say book,” remarked I. “It
sounds so gent-like.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span></p>

<p>“Anything you please,” said Trimbush.
“But as I was about saying,” continued he,
“if you should come out so powerfully strong,
perhaps you’d make room for a little slice of
an attempt at a song upon our worthy master&mdash;God
bless him!”</p>

<p>“Of your composing?” inquired I.</p>

<p>Trimbush coughed, licked his paws,
examined the tip of his stern, as if a flea was
taking a liberty in that quarter, but gave no
answer.</p>

<p>I repeated the question.</p>

<p>“As you <em>will</em> have it,” he rejoined,
pettishly, “then it <em>is</em> my composition.”</p>

<p>“I feel assured that you need not be
ashamed of it,” returned I. “Pray let me
hear the effusion.”</p>

<p>“You’ll not laugh?” said he, inquiringly.</p>

<p>“Not if the intent be serious,” I replied.</p>

<p>“In that case,” rejoined Trimbush, “here
goes!” and in a subdued, melodious voice, he
commenced his original song of</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<p class="center">THE OLD HUNTING SQUIRE.</p>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">I’ll sing you a sporting song that was made by a sporting pate,</div>
<div class="verse">Of a fine old hunting Squire, who has a fine estate,</div>
<div class="verse">And who keeps his hounds and hunters at a liberal old rate,</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span>
<div class="verse">And plenty gives to the poor and old who enter at his gate;</div>
<div class="verse">Like a fine old hunting Squire, one of the present day.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">His custom is, when at the Meet, to welcome great and small,</div>
<div class="verse">And a hearty greeting gives he to friends and neighbours all;</div>
<div class="verse">’Tis here the laugh and joke and jest right merrily go round,</div>
<div class="verse">“But hark, my boys! pray, cease your noise; for now sly Reynard’s found!”</div>
<div class="verse">Cries our fine old hunting Squire, one of the present day.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Although threescore and ten his years, he boldly takes the lead,</div>
<div class="verse">And flies the gate, the brook, and wall, and sweeps along the mead;</div>
<div class="verse">He never swerves nor cranes&mdash;not he; his true heart’s in the sport.</div>
<div class="verse">Oh! our fine old hunting Squire is one of the right sort!</div>
<div class="verse">A fine old hunting Squire, one of the present day.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">From scent to view they run him now, in vain fleet Reynard flies,</div>
<div class="verse">The ringing pack have doomed his death&mdash;he struggles, but he dies!</div>
<div class="verse">And at the finish who was there? Why he who at the burst</div>
<div class="verse">Led the boldest and the best, in the foremost flight was first&mdash;</div>
<div class="verse">Our fine old hunting Squire, one of the present day.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span>“A beautiful chaunt!” ejaculated I,
pleased with the sporting rhyme, “and one
which shall have place in ‘The Life of a Foxhound.’”</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>Having doubtlessly made every note of
value which could be drawn from his experience,
Ringwood’s memoir here ends from
want of material, and the earnest disposition
on the part of his biographer of wishing to
prove neither monotonous nor wearisome. It
was deemed by that wise hound that a history
or tale, when told, should, like a fox, when
killed, be broken up and finished. To this,
therefore, we will give an appropriate one in
a ringing</p>

<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Who-whoop!</span></p>

<hr class="r15" />

<p class="center larger">THE END.</p>

<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 52307 ***</div>
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