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, and said, “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 a cover, 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.