“Have at him!” hallooed Will Sykes. “Yoo-oo-it, hoik!” Hounds were now hunting in every direction of the cover; and it was evident that several foxes were before them. “The vixen and the whole litter are a-foot!” I overheard the first whip say. “Did you view her?” inquired Will Sykes. “Yes!” was the reply; “and she’s gone away.” “Then there’s a dog-fox behind,” rejoined the huntsman. “I thought so,” quietly observed Trimbush, stooping his muzzle to the ground, and drawing, with infinite gratification to his olfactory nerves. “I thought so,” repeated he: “a vixen, except she’s barren, never carries such a scent as that.” “You know the difference, then?” returned I. “Ay,” rejoined Trimbush; “as well as if I had helped to break her up. And so will you in a couple of seasons.” “But how?” asked I. “By experience,” replied my companion; “and from the natural aversion most animals have to destroy anything with or about to have young. But come,” he continued, “this is no time for talking, although we shall be stopped from getting away if they can get to our heads in time. However, keep close to me, and I’ll try to get a bat by ourselves in spite of ’em.” “Who-whoop,” hallooed the huntsman. “They’ve chopped a cub,” said Trimbush. “Now’s our time, if Ned Adams doesn’t head him back.” A succession of loud cracks from a whip followed; but no halloo was given. “He’s gone away,” remarked Trimbush, with glee; “and we’ll be on good terms with him. Stick to me.” Keeping close to my companion’s stern, I ran stride and stride with him through the brake until we came to a corner of the cover where the fox we were hunting broke away. “Now then,” said Trimbush cheerily; “up with your head and down with your stern. Come along, the scent’s a burning one.” The instant that Trimbush was free of the cover, he laid himself upon the line, and raced like a greyhound; I following in his wake. Hearing the heavy stride of a horse in our rear, I turned my head to see who was following. “Take no notice,” said the old hound: “If Ned gets to our heads--and he’ll prick blood for it, I’ll be sworn--the sport’s all over with us.” “What the deuce does he want to stop us for?” inquired I. “Pooh,” rejoined Trimbush. “Rattle on.” The second whip came spurring on with the evident desire of reaching us; but the faster he came, the faster we flew. “Ha, ha!” laughed Trimbush; “we’ll give ye a sob for it.” Along two open grass fields we led the whipper-in; and then, for more than a mile, up a long, narrow lane, flanked by two high banks. “I haven’t carried a bit of scent since we left the turf,” observed I. “Nor I either,” replied my companion. “Then what’s the use of flashing on in this way?” I asked.