The astonishment of Trimbush was caused by seeing the man deliberately proceeding to skin the fox, as he might the body of a dead cat or rabbit. “I’ll soon whip off your jacket,” said the man, “and then they can eat ye nice and comfortably. Such a skin as this,” continued he, “must be terribly tough, I know.” “What a considerate Christian!” exclaimed Loyalty. “Old Mark could scarcely be more thoughtful.” “Besides,” resumed the labourer, finishing his job, “such a skin as this is worth half-a-crown, and it had much better go into my pocket than down your bellies.” “Ho, ho!” ejaculated Trimbush. “That’s the secret of your attention, is it?” “Who-whoop!” hallooed the man. “Who-whoop!” and throwing the dismembered carcase to us, we tore it into pieces and demolished, with more than ordinary relish, the devil’s own. “Now, what am I to do with ye?” observed the rustic, scratching the back part of his head. “Take us to the nearest best quarters,” said Trimbush; “give us a good supper, plenty of straw, and lead us home in the morning.” “It’s a long distance,” soliloquized the man; “but I shall get well paid for my trouble, I know. It can’t be done to-night, howsomever; and so I’ll get farmer Oatfield to give grub and lodgings, and journey home with ye to-morrow myself.” “A capital move,” said Trimbush, “and a sentiment after my own heart. Come along.” Most willingly we followed our conductor from the cover, and after proceeding about a mile, we came to one of those nests of comforts, a good farm-house. As we entered the yard, two rough and shaggy shepherd’s dogs ran barking towards us; but upon coming closer, they wagged their short stumpy tails by way of a welcome, and soon afterwards we had a famous supper of warm milk and meal, supplied to us by the hospitable Mr. Oatfield, who heard with infinite glee the rustic’s account of the way in which he discovered us; and then, by his orders, some bundles of fresh straw were shaken out, upon which we stretched ourselves, with that pleasure which only the wearied feel. CHAPTER XI. “The gorse is yellow on the heath, The banks with speed-well flowers are gay, The oaks are budding, and beneath The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath, The silver wreath of May.” “I hate to see those violets a-peeping on the banks,” said old Mark to the huntsman, one morning, “and always did.” “Why so?” asked Will. “Because they are a sure sign that hunting is drawing to a close,” replied our feeder. “Yes, yes,” rejoined Will Sykes. “True enough. When the speed-well flowers begin to show,” continued he, “we may be certain that the season’s almost at an end.” “Shall we kill a May fox?” inquired Mark, for he always coupled the _we_ in all relating to us and our doings. “No,” replied Will. “The season’s too forward, and the Squire said yesterday he would only hunt twice more.”