“For with a sigh, a blast of all his breath,That viewless thing, called life, did from him steal.”
“For with a sigh, a blast of all his breath,That viewless thing, called life, did from him steal.”
“For with a sigh, a blast of all his breath,
That viewless thing, called life, did from him steal.”
We were trotting leisurely to cover, one morning, when I remarked that Trimbush was more serious and silent than usual.
“What are you thinking about?” said I.
“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.”
“Is that our first draw?” said I.
“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.”
“But how?” I asked. “He must besomething extraordinary to beat ye four whole seasons.”
“He is,” added Trimbush: “but he must be more thanthat, even to live till sun-down to-day.”
“Tell me all about him,” said I, “and what your plans are; for I see your mind is made up for mischief.”
“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.”
“Is he a big one?” I inquired.
“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.”
“View or no view,” rejoined I, “we’ll stick to him.”
“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.
“You’ve got some manœuvre or artful dodge in store for him, I know,” I remarked.
“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 wheneverhe 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.”
“Being so crafty,” returned I, “I’m surprised that they don’t depend more upon that which would save them,their speed.”
“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,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.”
At this moment Will Sykes glanced round, and hallooed, “Give them more room, Ned, and let them empty themselves.”
“Ay, ay,” replied Ned, checking his horse to leave greater space between himself and the huntsman.
“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.”
“Then you intend,” said I, resuming the subject, “then you intend——”
“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 velvetywind, hang me if I shall have any hope of breaking up the devil’s own.”
“Have you made known your plan to any of the others?” I inquired.
“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.”
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.
“Well!” said he, addressing Will Sykes, “is the devil’s own to beat us again to-day?”
“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.”
“And what are they?” asked the Squire.
“That he bears a charmed life,” replied Will, “and no hounds ever bred could run into him.”
Our master laughed heartily at this, andsaid, “We must try to break the charm.”
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.”
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.
“That’s right,” said Trimbush, going like a bullet through the furze, “although I should not wonder but he’s gone.”
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 acover, and just when about the thick of it, a whimper from Chancellor announced that the devil’s own was afoot.
“Tally-ho!” now rung from Tom Holt’s throat.
“Shoot to the right,” said Trimbush, leading, and in a few strides we were outside the thick, almost impenetrable gorse.
“Tally-ho, tally-ho!” again hallooed Tom.
“Come along,” said the old hound, “we are close to his brush this time at any rate.”
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.
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.
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 neverreached 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.
“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.”
“He can’t last the distance,” replied Rubicon. “We shall run him from scent to view in less than another mile.”
“So I think,” rejoined Wildboy. “His red rag’s hanging from his jaws worse than mine, I know, and that feels like dried chalk.”
“We shall come to soil presently,” returned Loyalty. “There’s the Loam stream not far a-head.”
“Egad!” added Dashwood, “but I wish it was in my next stride. I’m blistered with thirst.”
“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 forit as you go, and make good inch by inch, rather than be in doubt. We shall save time by the trouble.”
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.
“This is his line,” said Trimbush, evidently puzzled, “and yet——”
“Let us try up wind,” interrupted Dashwood, “he may have headed, as he’s a sinking one.”
“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.”
“But he may have headed back,” observed Wildboy.
“Hemay,” 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.”
Will Sykes, Ned Adams, and the Squire, now came in sight; but their horses could not be spurred out of a trot. Their heads werebetween their knees, and their tails shook as if they must drop off.
“How beautifully they work,” I heard the Squire say as he threw himself from the saddle. “Let them alone; pray let them alone.”
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.
“I’m sure he’s headed back,” said Wildboy, confidently.
“We’ll try,” replied Trimbush; “but I doubt it.”
“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.”
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, andapparently 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.
“A trick worthy of the devil’s own,” said Trimbush, laughing, “but I proved a match for him this time.”
“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.
“Because,” replied my companion, “he reached the water some seconds before ourselves, and swimming so fardown the stream, he gained the little bank of mud, where he squatted, with all the scentwashed away from him. 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.”
“I can’t think how you came to suspect that he had laid up there,” remarked I.
“I never knew a fox to do so before,”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.”
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.
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 alittle longer.” But this “little longer” appeared to be a very indefinite period.
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.
“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.
“What do you mean?” inquired I, reeling with weakness, and certain that my remaining strength was all but spent.
“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.”
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.
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 thecool 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.
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 hisjaws 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.
“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.
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.
“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.”
“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?”
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.
“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.”
“What a considerate Christian!” exclaimed Loyalty. “Old Mark could scarcely be more thoughtful.”
“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.”
“Ho, ho!” ejaculated Trimbush. “That’s the secret of your attention, is it?”
“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.
“Now, what am I to do with ye?” observed the rustic, scratching the back part of his head.
“Take us to the nearest best quarters,” said Trimbush; “give us a good supper,plenty of straw, and lead us home in the morning.”
“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.”
“A capital move,” said Trimbush, “and a sentiment after my own heart. Come along.”
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.
“The gorse is yellow on the heath,The banks with speed-well flowers are gay,The oaks are budding, and beneathThe hawthorn soon will bear the wreath,The silver wreath of May.”
“The gorse is yellow on the heath,The banks with speed-well flowers are gay,The oaks are budding, and beneathThe hawthorn soon will bear the wreath,The silver wreath of May.”
“The gorse is yellow on the heath,
The banks with speed-well flowers are gay,
The oaks are budding, and beneath
The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath,
The silver wreath of May.”
“I hate to see those violets a-peeping on the banks,” said old Mark to the huntsman, one morning, “and always did.”
“Why so?” asked Will.
“Because they are a sure sign that hunting is drawing to a close,” replied our feeder.
“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.”
“Shall we kill a May fox?” inquiredMark, for he always coupled thewein all relating to us and our doings.
“No,” replied Will. “The season’s too forward, and the Squire said yesterday he would only hunt twice more.”
“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.”
“The devil’s own is not there,” replied I. “How is that?”
“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.”
“I’m glad of that,” returned I.
“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.”
“What was the time, do you suppose?” inquired I.
“Not a minute less than five hours,” responded my companion.
“How proud the Squire and all of them were upon our return!” said I.
“Yes,” rejoined the old hound. “Ithought we should be killed by that which seldom forms the ground of coroners’ inquests—excessive kindness.”
“Well!” exclaimed I, “since we have but two days remaining, we must endeavour to wind up the season with a good finish.”
“To be sure,” returned Trimbush; “a brace more of noses must be added to the account, at least.”
“How tired I shall be of kennel life throughout the long, hot summer,” said I, with a whine at the thought.
“It is rather monotonous, I must say,” replied my companion.
“And then to be continually shut up,” rejoined I.
“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.”
“That’s very kind and considerate,” said I, “and contributes greatly to our happiness.”
“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.”
“What a pity it is,” said I, “that we can’t make our rulers comprehend us as well as we understand them.”
“Their heads are so thick,” replied Trimbush, contemptuously. “A great many are solid, like stones, all the way through, I’m sure.”
“Some act as if they were,” rejoined I.
“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.”
“It’s a good thing,” I remarked, “that our master is not one of the stone-heads.”
“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 huntsmanmakes good hounds, so does a good master make good servants.”
“There’s a wonderful deal in the management,” I observed.
“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.”
“Your information concerning our liberty during the summer months,” said I, “has reconciled me somewhat to the mortification of closing the season.”
“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.”
“The feather often shows which way the wind blows,” remarked I.
“As well as the national banner of England floating in the breeze,” returned the old hound.
“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?”
“In the field?” asked Trimbush.
“Yes,” replied I.
“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.”
“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.”
“Ay,” rejoined Trimbush, “if abided by, there would be but little cause for grumbling about want of sport. We can generally dofar 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.”
“Upon my honour,” returned I, “you talk like a philosopher.”
“Then a philosopher speaks but the simple truth,” added my companion, “in very simple language.”
“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.”
“You have noticed that, have you?”responded the old hound, laughing. “No; it is alwaystheylost him, butwekilled him. Ha, ha, ha!”
“It ought to be just reversed,” rejoined I.
“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.”
“I begin to have a great contempt for the ignorance of human beings,” observed I.
“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.”
“When early primroses appear,And vales are decked with daffodils,I hail the new reviving year,And soothing hope my bosom fills.The lambkin bleating on the plain,The swallow seen with gladdened eye,The welcome cuckoo’s merry strain,Proclaim the joyful summer nigh.”
“When early primroses appear,And vales are decked with daffodils,I hail the new reviving year,And soothing hope my bosom fills.The lambkin bleating on the plain,The swallow seen with gladdened eye,The welcome cuckoo’s merry strain,Proclaim the joyful summer nigh.”
“When early primroses appear,
And vales are decked with daffodils,
I hail the new reviving year,
And soothing hope my bosom fills.
The lambkin bleating on the plain,
The swallow seen with gladdened eye,
The welcome cuckoo’s merry strain,
Proclaim the joyful summer nigh.”
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.
Punctuality being the standing order withour 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.
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.
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,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.
“Gently, Boaster,” hallooed Will, giving an admonitory crack of the whip. “Gently, Boaster.”
Upon pushing my nose among the group, I inhaled a slight scent oftheanimal; but it was very faint.
“It’s a stale drag,” said Trimbush, “and he may be twenty miles away by this time. Who opened on it?” asked he.
“Boaster,” replied I, fearing that he might think me guilty of the puppy-like deed.
“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.”
“But it was the right scent,” expostulated Boaster; “and how could I tell if it was stale or not?”
“Then your nose is not worth a damn,” returned Trimbush, passionately. “At anyrate,” continued he, “you might have a little decent modesty, and not take precedency ofus.”
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.
We were now taken about two miles, and thrown into a large rambling cover, composed of patches of gorse, bramble, and nutwood.
“I saw some fresh billets just now, sir,” said Ned Adams to the Squire.
“Where?”
“Just under that ash, and on the edge of the gap, sir,” replied the second whip.
“Very well,” rejoined his master.
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.
“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!”
Now we closed; now we went full swing. Up went Tom Holt’s cap.
“It’s a vixen, sir,” I heard him say.
“Stop them, then,” replied our master, “and let her go. We can’t spare a bitch fox now.”
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.
“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?”
“You would be the last to carry out that principle, I’m sure,” observed Rubicon.
“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,breaks away. We meet with enough disappointments which can’t be avoided, throughout a season, without having such as these thrust upon us.”
“But we are continually so stopped in cub-hunting,” returned Rubicon.
“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——”
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.
“Have at him!” hallooed Will. “Have at him, darlings! Yoiks, have at him!”
Up went Tom Holt’s cap again.
“All right, sir,” I heard him say. “As fine a dog-fox as ever was seen.”
Through the furze we dashed, and out burst more than two-thirds of us close to his brush.
Twang, twang, twang, twang, went Will’s horn.
“For’ard, for’ard!” hallooed Ned Adams: “get to him hounds, get to him! For’ard! for’ard!”
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.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
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 thefield, 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.
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.
“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——”
Atwang, twang, 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.
“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 anycause that the fox has been headed; but we should not speculate upon chances or accidents.”
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.
“I wonder,” said the old hound, both vexedand puzzled, “if he has been headed back?”
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.
“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.”
“No doubt, sir,” replied Will, “or he would most likely have beaten us.”
“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 foxcouldhave 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.”
“Or merit to his craft and cunning, youmight 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.”
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.
“Be candid,” said he, in a half whisper. “How was it that you made the fox out in that beastly manure?”
“I winded him,” rejoined Rubicon, with a sly grin.
“Pshaw!” replied the old hound. “It was impossible.”
“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——”
“As it did me,” interrupted Trimbush, “before commencing your explanation. We owe the kill to chance.”