“The convicted always think so,” rejoined the old hound. “However,” continued he, “I quite agree in the same opinion. There was sufficient cause for fearful apprehension, and it was impossible to calculate the amount of the calamity. But I do not think that any kind of fear should be allowed to exaggerate an injury. To observe sedulous care in preventing its extension is most wise and prudent. At the same time, if a hasty panic overrules the cooler judgment, the engendered evil may on evil’s head accumulate ten-fold. Our master was decidedly wrong in contemplating having you destroyed with such slight evidence of questionable inoculation; but he was quite right in ordering you to be drafted from the rest. The one was an unweighed, ill-judged impulse--the other, a wise precaution.” “A distinction, with a material difference,” I observed. “Yes,” replied he, “beyond the shadow of a doubt. I once heard,” resumed my friend, “of a M. F. H. having his entire pack destroyed, in consequence of a couple-and-a-half showing symptoms of hydrophobia--or, as we should say, in more intelligible language, a dread of water. Nothing could be more wanton or unjustifiable, and as well might an entire community of human beings be doomed to perish in consequence of one or more of its members becoming insane, as fifty or sixty couple of hounds, from the same cause.” “Were there any other doubtful cases besides myself?” I inquired. “No,” replied Trimbush. “All were turned over with the greatest scrutiny; but nothing suspicious appearing, we were allowed to remain as we were, with a great additional watch being kept over us. In fact, Mark, or Will Sykes, was always close by for a long time after Gameboy’s death; and if a hound growled even in his dream, one or the other was at hand in a moment. I never saw greater vigilance; and I can’t help thinking that the two kept an eye open for weeks in their sleep.” The tramp of three horses approaching the kennel door put an end to this, our first conversation since the fatal occurrence of Gameboy’s death. “Let ’em out, Mark,” said a well-known voice, and as the feeder threw back the door, we scrambled from the court, and ran and jumped in sportive circles about the horses. Although in the highest state of excitement, every tongue was mute, and a slight crack from Tom Holt’s whip put a considerable check to the rather violent gambols of a few of the youngest. It was not quite daylight as we trotted along between three and four miles; and as we entered a gate at the end of a by-lane, who should be standing with his reins over his arm, and leaning carelessly against the side of his horse, but our “up-with-the-lark” and excellent master. “You are behind your time, William,” said he, throwing himself into his saddle. “Begging your pardon, sir,” replied the huntsman, tugging at the curb chain securing his thick watch in a very deep fob, “I think not.” “By seven minutes,” rejoined his master.