“Jealous?” repeated my companion, with a proud lash of his stern, “I flatter myself that I can afford to be _generous_.” Seeing, however, that he was a little annoyed at the attention I received, I said nothing more, but jogged in silence by the side of the Squire’s horse. “By the way,” said our master, addressing Will, “in speaking of haste, let this morning be another lesson to you not to take your hounds off their noses with a sinking fox. More are lost by that than by any other mistake committed. There was every probability of your leaving your fox behind in the ditch, and then you would have said that he had headed back to cover. A fresh one would have been got up, and the error remained undiscovered. Countless foxes, booked safe to die, are changed in this manner, and escape from no other reason than from taking hounds off their noses. Remember this, William.” The huntsman touched his cap, and the conversation dropped. CHAPTER XVI. “For aught I see they are as sick that Surfeit with too much, as they that starve with Nothing.” We had just finished our breakfast one morning, and were lying about the court to assist digestion, when I chanced to remark that I considered the flesh not quite so nicely cooked as usual. “Your palate must be out of order,” returned Trimbush. “Mark is as good a boiler as ever heated a copper.” “Still the material might have been tough,” said I, “and consequently required longer boiling.” “I think not,” rejoined my friend, with a smack of his lips. “My taste may be depended upon in such important matters.” “A great deal of one’s comfort depends upon the cook,” I observed. “Beyond conception,” emphatically replied the old hound. “In addition to which,” he continued, “we can’t perform our duties unless properly kept. The meal must be good and old, the flesh well but not over-boiled, and the broth rich and sweet to enable us to kill foxes handsomely. Our strength, speed, and wind, depend upon the feeding.” “No doubt about it,” coincided I. “I remember,” resumed my friend, “hearing a scientific opinion given on this important subject to us from a thorough-going sportsman of the name of Cecil. In a few words I think more was never spoken.” “If not too much trouble,” said I, “it would gratify me to hear it repeated.” “A pleased and patient listener,” returned Trimbush, “invariably renders me a willing speaker.” And after settling himself in a position of the greatest ease, he commenced the following philosophical dissertation on catering for foxhounds: