Immediately after the Squire’s arrival, we were thrown into the cover, and, when about the middle of it, I saw Trimbush feather his stern, and before I could reach him he threw his tongue, and, as he did so, Will Sykes gave a cheer which Echo took pleasure to repeat. “Hark to Trimbush! Hark to Trimbush! Have at him! Whoop!” We clustered to him, and, poking my nose to the ground, I drew in a scent which made every hackle on my body stiffen with delight. Up went my head, and forth I sent some music that came from my very heart. “See that puppy,” said the Squire. “How he loves it.” “Have at him, Ringwood,” hallooed the huntsman, rising in his stirrups. “Have at him, good hound!” and then, turning to the Squire, I heard him remark, “He’s a perfect wonder, sir.” “Yes,” was the reply, “he’s the most promising I have ever seen.” We now got to our fox in a body, and crashed him through the cover. Full swing we flew, and, as we swept out of the furze, I was astonished to lose the scent which we had carried so strong up to the corner of the brake, and flung myself here and there to pick it up again. Most of us were sorely puzzled for a few seconds, when Trimbush, after stooping his nose to the ground for some distance, down wind and up, along the verge of the cover, said to me, “The artful dodger’s slipped back, and shot into the brake again.” “Tally-ho! tally-ho! Gone away,” hallooed a voice from the farthest end of the cover. “I told you so,” said Trimbush. “We were too close to him, and he headed back to make the distance greater at the burst.” I now sniffed the scent again, and, thinking I was showing off, made as much noise as I possibly could. “Keep your tongue still,” snapped Trimbush. “Like most puppies, two-legged and four, if they possess a good voice, they seldom exhibit equal good sense in using it.” Twing, twing, twang, twa--a--ng, went Will Sykes’s horn, as he jammed his horse through bush and briar. “For’ard, for’ard,” shouted Tom Holt. “Get to him, hounds, get to him.” “Come along,” said Trimbush. “Stick to me.” “What a clean, fine, lengthy fellow he is!” I heard some one remark. “His point’s Picton Brake.” “Yes,” replied another. “His brush must be two feet: and what a snowy tag to it!” “Indeed!” observed Trimbush. “Then we’ll give it such a dusting as to change its colour pretty quickly.” A bunch of old hounds flew out of cover with us, and, taking up the scent, away we rattled in a body, as close as a swarm of bees. “They won’t over-ride us to-day,” remarked I. “Not if the scent lasts as good as it is,” replied Trimbush; “but that’s doubtful.” For fifteen minutes we burst him along as hard as we could split. The day was fine and warm, and, sinking the wind, the pace began to tell most terribly upon some of us young ones. “I feel very choky,” said I, doing my best to keep my place. “Hold on,” returned Trimbush. “He must have crossed the Kulm stream, and there we shall get a cooling plunge.”