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 of _the_ animal; 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 any rate,” continued he, “you might have a little decent modesty, and not take precedency of _us_.” 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?”