“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.” “What do you mean?” inquired I. “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. We now tried up wind, and, sure enough, hit it off again under a hedgerow. “Ha, ha!” laughed Trimbush. “He’s a sinking one, and has turned to die.” We now rattled on full swing over a 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. “What’s that chattering pie doing?” inquired I, directing Trimbush’s attention to the bird. “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.” “Are those covers strong?” I asked, seeing that we were making for a long line of trees. “Little more than spinnies,” replied my friend. “He can’t hang in them a minute.” 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 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. “Put your nose down and work,” said he passionately, “don’t talk to me.” “But I tell you----” “Pshaw!” interrupted Trimbush. “What’s your head in the air for?” “Because the _fox_ is in the air,” replied I. “What do you mean?” asked he, seeing that I was serious. I then told him that which I had seen, and inquired what I should do. “Hold your tongue,” returned the artful old rogue; “it shows a wise head, I’ve heard. Leave the matter to me.” 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. “What’s that hound about?” said the Squire, looking greatly astonished. 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 tongue. The rest now clustered round the leader, who, managing to stick and cling to the ivy, got some dozen feet from the ground. “He’s gone to tree, sir,” said Will Sykes, exultingly, as he threw himself from the saddle.