In a handful of seconds we neared the water, and dashed into it with as much delight as a flock of thirsty ducks. “Now,” said Trimbush, “you’ll be able to reach the brake, where, I’d bet my stern to a buck rabbit’s scut, he’ll hang as long as he can and dare.” “Why so?” inquired I. “Why so!” repeated Trimbush, rather contemptuously. “Because he must know by this time that he can’t outrun us. The scent’s too good, and we got away with him on such terms that nothing but reaching a strong earth, or changing to a fresh fox, can save him.” “We must try to keep to our hunted one,” said I, thinking it was exhibiting some wisdom. “Try!” repeated my friend; “of course we shall try. We always do; but it’s sometimes impossible to distinguish the difference between the scent of our hunted fox and a fresh one. It’s easy enough, when a fox is viewed, to know, because it can be seen whether he’s been shoved along at the expense of his bellows and toilet; but our noses can’t be depended upon.” As Trimbush said, upon gaining the brake we found the fox hanging in it; and, although very hot, we gave him such a towelling, that, so far from improving his condition, he had better have taken to his pads and faced the open. I saw him a dozen times in cover, and his red rag hung from his open jaws, and his brush dragged along the ground. We pressed him up and down across the rides at a killing pace, and although there was no bullying by holding him in cover, and every opportunity given him to quit it, he still stuck to his quarters. “You shall either run or die,” said Trimbush, going through the cover like a bullet. A clear, musical “Tally-ho” now echoed far and wide. “Gone away at last, eh?” observed my friend, and, throwing up his head, he rushed to the halloo. “Hold hard!” roared the Squire, as one, too eager, rode nearly over me as I leaped from the cover. “You almost killed, sir,” continued he, “the best of my young entry, and perhaps the most valuable puppy I ever bred.” “I beg your pardon, sir; but my horse pulls so, that----” “Then he is not fit to ride to hounds, sir,” hastily rejoined the Squire. Being high on our mettle, we flashed forward, after just touching the scent on a dry-lying fallow, thinking that we had struck on his line; but Trimbush, and a few of the old hounds, soon found that they were wrong, and, throwing up their heads, came to a check. “Let them alone,” said the Squire, as Will Sykes indicated a disposition to make a hasty cast down wind. “Let them alone,” repeated he. “He’s certain to be making for the belt of covers on the ridge, sir,” replied Will, “and the ploughs are so dry that it is impossible for hounds to carry it over them.” “Let them alone,” quietly rejoined the Squire. “Let them alone.”