“It’s the way with those fools of men,” replied Trimbush. “They often laud that in us which deserves no praise whatever, and pass by in silence some of our most remarkable accomplishments.” I felt that there was much truth in Trimbush’s argument; and although a sly twinkle in his eyes led me to suspect that he made thus light of my information for a selfish purpose, I lost a great deal of the vanity which I hitherto had entertained from being the agent of so fine a finish. “You chanced to remark yesterday,” said I, “that foxes constantly run down wind. Why do they? Is it to render the scent less strong for us?” “Certainly not,” responded Trimbush. “The scent has nothing whatever to do with it, notwithstanding what a parcel of cackling geese may have said and written. The truth is, a fox is a timid, sly animal with extraordinary quick ears and eyes, and a famous nose. When found, he, of course, must break where there’s an opening; and as no men place themselves up wind of us, or very seldom, that side is generally left free, and away he rattles _up wind_ at the burst. I am now, of course, speaking of the rule, and not the exceptions. He does not go far, however, before he smells, hears, or sees something unpleasant, which turns him either to the right or left. Another lurking cause of suspicion that there’s an enemy in front, as well as those in the rear turns him again, and so on until he gets his head straight down wind, when, smelling and hearing nothing before him, he tries to make his point and get out of the reach of our ringing cries, and, as he knows full well--whetted appetites.” “That sounds reasonable,” remarked I. “Thank you,” rejoined the old hound, flourishing his stern. “I’m flattered with your approval.” “I noticed that the scent continued to improve after the first ten minutes,” said I, “until within a short time of running him to view, when it seemed to gradually die and become more faint.” “It not only seemed,” replied Trimbush, “but it did so, and from obvious reasons. Every animal with a skin--and I don’t remember at this moment any without,” facetiously continued he, “smells stronger when hot than cold. Fear often produces the same effect, but from the like cause--as any excitement, whether pleasurable or the reverse, produces physical heat. Now, after a fox is found, his scent _increases_--although, from the state of the weather and ground, we may not be able to hunt him a yard, nevertheless--so long as _exhaustion_ does not take place; and then as he sinks, so does the scent _decrease_. The reasons for this,” continued Trimbush, “are as simple as they are indubitable. The perspirable matter escaping through the skin augments for a time from exertion, and the devil of a fright he is in from our rattling behind him: but this begins to die away after excessive evaporation, and often has caused us to lose a fox scarcely able to crawl.” “I thought the scent came from the pads,” remarked Levity.