“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 her 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 _our_ tastes.” “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 to _kill_; but hounds never flag from want of _blood_. All highly bred dogs like _us_ 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.” “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 meaning 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 _us_, 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 _who-whooping_ over us; but, to say that we absolutely require _blood_, 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 generally 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 _climax_ to sport; not from the covetous, greedy, piggish, grovelling want of the material to lick our chops.”