A _twang, twang_, from the horn, drowned the conclusion of the old woman’s delivery, and, trying back, we were quickly on his line again, and making play at topping speed. “I thought,” observed Trimbush, “that the old woman had headed him; but it doesn’t do for us to try back until we have made our casts good, right and left. It is quite correct for a huntsman to do so if he learns from any cause that the fox has been headed; but we should not speculate upon chances or accidents.” We now carried it over some deep fallows, and, being very dry and flying, we had to pick through with great care. It was remarkable to see the difference between the old steady hounds and the young and eager ones in these difficulties. With their noses on the ground, the pilots of the pack felt for the scent, here and there and held it forward with patience and perseverance, while the too ardent and flashy ones dashed in all directions, with as much notion of the line of the fox, as that of the rook flying over their heads. After picking through the ploughs we were enabled to up with our heads again, cluster, and go full swing over some small grass fields to a village road, where unfortunately, some dung had been recently carted, and the horrid smell made me feel ready to vomit. Trimbush felt along the road a considerable distance, as it was down wind, before he was satisfied that this was not his line, and then turning up, made about as wide a cast, but to no purpose. “I wonder,” said the old hound, both vexed and puzzled, “if he has been headed back?” Rubicon, who must have had a remarkably strong stomach, now jumped upon the steaming, reeking, stinking heap, and, plunging his nose under a loose portion at the top, drew out the fox by a hind leg. In an instant we flew to his assistance, and for the first and last time in my life, I helped to kill a fox on a dung heap. “Well!” said our master, wiping his bald head, and looking as pleased as at any period that I ever saw him, “we wind up the season with a glorious finish. We were too far behind to see,” he continued; “but of course they must have viewed him into the manure.” “No doubt, sir,” replied Will, “or he would most likely have beaten us.” “It only shows,” rejoined the Squire, “to what improbable shifts a sinking fox will have resort. How often men’s brains are racked to discover the why and wherefore that a fox _could_ have beaten their judgment and experience, when, perhaps, he may be close to their elbows without the smallest blame to be attached to either hounds or them for his escape.” “Or merit to his craft and cunning, you might have added,” said Trimbush. “For when a fox sinks, not only his physical strength is expended, but his mental powers die with it. He is in such a mortal fright, that he cannot think; but like a blown chicken, pokes his head into the first hiding place which presents itself.”