As we were trotting quietly homewards, as proud as peacocks, I saw Trimbush tip Rubicon over the nose with his stern, and drew him from the body on one side of the road. “Be candid,” said he, in a half whisper. “How was it that you made the fox out in that beastly manure?” “I winded him,” rejoined Rubicon, with a sly grin. “Pshaw!” replied the old hound. “It was impossible.” “Well, well!” interrupted Rubicon, “I admit it. The fact is I jumped on the heap for a very different purpose, and as I did so, I felt something move under my feet. A thought struck me----” “As it did me,” interrupted Trimbush, “before commencing your explanation. We owe the kill to chance.” CHAPTER XIII. “Now the hill, the hedge, are green, Now the warbler’s throat’s in tune, Blithsome is the verdant scene, Brightened by the beams of noon.” It was a sultry summer’s day, and Trimbush and myself were luxuriating under the wide-spreading and deep shade of a walnut tree growing near the kennel. Five or six of our companions, on the free list, like ourselves, were lounging about in the coolest spots, and their only occasional signs of life, as they laid upon the ground, consisted in brushing the buzzing flies from their nostrils and hides, and, now and then, making a snap at their enemies. Wearied, at length, with my own laziness, I made an effort to draw Trimbush into conversation, by asking him the cause of kennel lameness. The old hound rolled on his side, and giving a wide yawn, stretched out his legs as far as possible, with his stern stiffly turned over his back. “That’s comfortable,” said he, “very. And so you wish to learn the cause of one of the greatest afflictions that can visit us?” “Yes,” rejoined I, “it is my wish to know everything concerning our interests. For if mankind be the proper study for man, so must hounds and hunting be the proper study for me.” “A sensible remark,” returned my companion; “and as you are always ready to listen, there can be no doubt but that you’ll attain proficiency.” “I’m greatly obliged for your encouragement,” added I. “I remember two seasons ago,” said Trimbush, “hearing Tom Holt read aloud from _The Sporting Magazine_ a remarkably sensible article on the subject you wish to be informed about, and it made so deep an impression that I can now repeat it nearly word for word.” “I’m all attention,” I replied. My friend cleared his throat, and then commenced.