“Good or bad, better or worse,” resumed Trimbush, “it’s no use arguing about the 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:--‘Lift ’em hard, Will. That’s your time o’ day. Chink-wink ’em along!’” “There’s no time given, then?” said I. “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----d hounds!’” “A pretty kind of a foxhunter, truly!” I remarked. “A faithful description of the majority, I 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.” 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. 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 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. “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.”