CHAPTER VI.

A CURIOUS FINISH.

A CURIOUS FINISH.

“My hounds deserve their fox, sir,” repliedthe Squire. “He is beaten, and nothing but an accidental escape—like this might have been—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.”

Not exactly among us, but not far from where I stood—I think Will did it on purpose to please me—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.

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?”

“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 everyone present.” And lifting his hat, string high, he bowed and joined the side of his huntsman.

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.”

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

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

“Let them alone, eh?” rejoined the Squire, smiling more perceptibly.

“Ay,” returned Will. “Let them aloneis a beautiful rule.”

“See, the day begins to break,And the light shoots like a streakOf subtle fire; the wind blows coldWhile the morning doth unfold:Now the birds begin to rouse,And the squirrel from the boughsLeaps to get him nuts and fruit:The early lark that erst was mute,Carols to the rising dayMany a note and many a lay.”

“See, the day begins to break,And the light shoots like a streakOf subtle fire; the wind blows coldWhile the morning doth unfold:Now the birds begin to rouse,And the squirrel from the boughsLeaps to get him nuts and fruit:The early lark that erst was mute,Carols to the rising dayMany a note and many a lay.”

“See, the day begins to break,

And the light shoots like a streak

Of subtle fire; the wind blows cold

While the morning doth unfold:

Now the birds begin to rouse,

And the squirrel from the boughs

Leaps to get him nuts and fruit:

The early lark that erst was mute,

Carols to the rising day

Many a note and many a lay.”

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.

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

“I’m not well,” replied I, limping from the bench.

“Oh, it’s nothing to care about,” replied he, yawning and stretching his limbs.“Yesterday’s work has taken the steel and wire out of ye, that’s all.”

“It does not appear to have touched you,” rejoined I.

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

“Yes,” answered I proudly: “one who does his duty, and gives as much satisfaction as any of youoldsters.”

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

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.”

“Hear, hear, hear,” said one of our companions called Chancellor.

“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!”

“You’re a sharp lot,” replied the oldhound, 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.”

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

“Well!” returned Trimbush, “and supposing Idoadmit it, what then?”

“You should not have snatched the honour from him,” replied Levity.

“Honour?” rejoined Trimbush. “Pooh! The honour was already gained before we mouthed the fox. We all like blood for the finish—men as well as hounds—but it does not follow that there may not be quite as much credit due to both without awho-whoopas with it. For instance,” continued he, “if that youngster Ringwood had had his nose to the ground—as he should have done the moment the fox was lost to view, instead of occupying himself by stargazing—we should,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!”

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

“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.”

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.

“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?”

“Certainly not,” responded Trimbush.“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 rattlesup windat 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—whetted appetites.”

“That sounds reasonable,” remarked I.

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

“I noticed that the scent continued toimprove 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.”

“It not only seemed,” replied Trimbush, “but it did so, and from obvious reasons. Every animal with a skin—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—as any excitement, whether pleasurable or the reverse, produces physical heat. Now, after a fox is found, his scentincreases—although, from the state of the weather and ground, we may not be able to hunt him a yard, nevertheless—so long asexhaustiondoes not take place; and then as he sinks, so does the scentdecrease. 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.”

“I thought the scent came from the pads,” remarked Levity.

“And what made ye think that?” sneered the old hound.

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

“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—and—and—exactly so, and every part else.”

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 ofhis 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.”

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

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

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

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.”

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 isnothing 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.

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.”

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

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.

“There’s nothing so puzzling, nothing so difficult to comprehend by the best and most experienced of us,” said Trimbush, addressingme, “as the philosophy of scent; and yet, forsooth, we are to be told by a babbling puppy that——”

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

“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.”

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.”

“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 onthe 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—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.”

“That seems very singular,” said I.

“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.”

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

“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 exhalationsfrom the ground, occasioned by the warmth of the day.”

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.

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

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

“To hear the lark begin his flight,

And singing startle the dull night,

From his watch-tower in the skies,

Till the dappled dawn doth rise;

Then to come in spite of sorrow,

And at my window bid good morrow,

Through the sweet-briar, or the vine,

Or the twisted eglantine.

…

Oft listening how the hounds and horn

Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn.”

“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.”

“It’s not a pleasant one, certainly,” replied the huntsman.

“Pleasant?” repeated Tom. “In the first place there’s a nasty, close, woodland country with banks as high as churches. Thenwe 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.”

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

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

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

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.

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

“They are a rough-looking set,” replied I,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.

“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.”

“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?”

“Can’t you see they have?” replied my companion.

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

“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.”

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, werestripped 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.

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.

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.

“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.”

“I’ll take care of myself,” replied I.

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.”

An old favourite line hunter, called Rasselas, now threw his tongue.

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

“Have at him!” hallooed Will Sykes. “Have at him, hoik. Hoik, hoik together!”

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.

About a minute afterwards, out came a fine, lengthy dog-fox.

“Tally-ho!” shrieked a muffin on a hired knacker, and back the fox dived into the brake again.

“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.”

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—which always recoil upon the utterers of them—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.

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.

“It’s choking work this,” said I.

“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.”

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.

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

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

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

“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.”

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

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

“Where?”

“At the bottom of the ride, sir.”

“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?”

“I thought the stragglers——”

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

“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.”

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.

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.

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

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

We carried a fine head across the first fieldof some thirty acres of grass, and crossing two wide ditches—which would be called brooks in some counties—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.

“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.”

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.

As the ground was good and we had a turnof 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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

“HOLD HAR-R-R-D!”

“HOLD HAR-R-R-D!”

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.

“William,” said the Squire, sternly. “Take the hounds home.”

Will touched his cap, and the order was obeyed.

“Oh! what avails the largest gifts of heavenWhen drooping health and spirits go amiss?How tasteless then whatever can be given;Health is the vital principle of bliss.”

“Oh! what avails the largest gifts of heavenWhen drooping health and spirits go amiss?How tasteless then whatever can be given;Health is the vital principle of bliss.”

“Oh! what avails the largest gifts of heaven

When drooping health and spirits go amiss?

How tasteless then whatever can be given;

Health is the vital principle of bliss.”

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

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

“No,” rejoined he; “but the Squire’s coming to inspect us, and, I suppose, you’d like to appear nice and comely inhiseyes.”

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

“You’ll see in a few minutes,” added Trimbush, “and if everything isn’t ingingerly order, I’ll bet a week’s meal and broth, those will hear of it who are responsible for their neglect.”

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.

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.”

“Can you time him to a second?” said Mark smiling.

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

As a distant clock was striking, the bell rung at the kennel door.

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

“Now for my frock,” said he, and one as white as snow was brought by old Mark, whowas sensitively jealous of the privilege of assisting the Squire to make his kennel toilet.

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.

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

“Each hound singly,” replied the Squire, “and the entry first.”

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.

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

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

“His nose is hot,” observed the Squire,touching my nostrils, and standing a few feet back followed up the remark by saying, “What is that redness on his flank?”

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

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

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.

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.”

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

“Let me see,” rejoined our master, and upon lifting it up, said, “He has sprung a claw, andyouought to have known it.”

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

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 perfectlysatisfied and content with the general arrangements of the establishment.

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

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

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

“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.”

“Probably,” said I, “and I wish the fellow——”

“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.”

“I heard a man say, when we were out last,” said I, resolved to take advantage of Trimbush’s present loquacious humour; forthe 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.”

“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.”

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

“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 akillingline-hunter, and is a guide and pilot for the pack. Often will yousee 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.”

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

“Yes, yes, yes,” rejoined my companion, “and so would every true sportsman; but where there is one who understands fox-hunting as ascience, 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.

“I am very glad you told me this,”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.”

“Nor is there,” added Trimbush. “But who cares for the praise of a set of fools? I’d rather have one ‘Yo—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.”

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

“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.’”

“And was he hung!” inquired I, feeling a cold shiver run through my veins.

“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.”

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

“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.”

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

“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.”

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

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

“Cold grew the foggy morn: the day was brief:

Loose on the cherry hung the crimson leaf:

The dew dwelt ever on the herb, the woods

Roared with strong blasts, with mighty showers the floods.

All green was vanished, save the pine and yew,

That still displayed their melancholy hue,

Save the green holly with its berries red,

And the green moss that o’er the gravel spread.”

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 effectsof 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.

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.

Sighing, moaning, whistling, screaming—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—clinging like affection to the dead—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.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—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.

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.

“Well,” said I, as Trimbush entered “what sport?”

“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.”

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

“Might as well have been at home,”returned the old hound, in a grumbling humour.

“You found?” said I.

“Of course we did,” he replied. “We never get a blank day. They are too staunch and true preservers inourcountry for that to take place.”

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.

“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.”

“You are no bad judge,” replied I, laughing.

“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.”

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—and it did not occupy many minutes—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 thedryingapartment. 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.

“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.”

“Except the foxes in it,” replied I.

“Oh!” rejoined he, “I have no enmity towards them. It’s the combined joy of finding, running, and beating them, and the pleasure of——”

“Eating them,” added I.

“Well?” continued he, as if weighing thesentence, “I suppose we may say that, too; but I am rather doubtful about it.”

“About what?” inquired I.

“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.”

“But that you did once,” said I.

“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.”

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

“No,” returned he, “I think not. Fancy, for instance, your killing and eating the poor little vixen chained just outside the kennel door.”

“Ugh!” said I, disgusted at the thought.

“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 ournaturalfood, we couldn’t help doing so, and the first opportunity that presented itself she would be digested victuals.”

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

“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.”

“There’s great force in your argument,” I remarked.

“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—let it be on the tree or in a cage—she will be equally disposed to make it herprey. 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 toourtastes.”

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

“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 tokill; but hounds never flag from want ofblood. All highly bred dogs likeuslove 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.”

“You are very severe on our masters,” rejoined I.

“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 meaningand 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 withus, 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 arewho-whoopingover us; but, to say that we absolutely requireblood, is all nonsense.”

“But the more we kill, the greater kill-devils we become,” said I.

“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 generallydisappointed, 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 greatclimaxto sport; not from the covetous, greedy, piggish, grovelling want of the material to lick our chops.”

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—chaps with as much music in their souls as we have in our tongues—now and then; but fools come into the world every second.”

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