“Quite right, sir,” added Will, looking at his apoplectic time-keeper. “Seven minutes have given me the slip.” “No matter,” returned the Squire; “we have scarcely light enough as it is.” The narrow zig-zag lane led on to a large open grass field, on the borders of which was one of the best and strongest covers in our country. “Who has examined this cover?” asked the Squire. “Tom Holt, sir,” replied the huntsman. “Where did you find most billets?” “In the field beyond this, sir,” replied the whipper-in, with a touch of his cap. “Very good,” rejoined his master. “Then take them there, William,” continued he, “and let the puppies see the old hounds feel for the scent.” No sooner were we in the field spoken of by Tom Holt, than, stooping my nose to the ground, I inhaled that scent, which, from the first, sent my blood tingling through my whole body. Several began to hustle, push, and fling themselves about, and one, named Harbinger, threw his tongue. “So-oftly, Harbinger, so-oftly,” said Will. “You’re as noisy as ever, I see.” “He’s incorrigible,” replied the Squire. “Put him away.” “We shall cure him after a few more trials, sir, I hope,” rejoined the huntsman, who could never bear to have one of us destroyed. “He should have been cured before this,” rejoined his master, “and if not removed, he will render others as bad as himself. I hate a noisy hound,” continued he, “and I’m certain no drilling will stop Harbinger from riot and babbling. There is no vice so contagious and injurious as the one he possesses and persists in; and to use further forbearance in retaining him in the pack would be most unwise. You know, last season, that after being flogged three times in one day for riot at hare, he repeated the fault whenever he had the chance and thought the whips could not get at him.” “He’s to go, then, sir?” said Will. “The sooner the better,” replied the Squire. “I wish to have my hounds so perfect, that if any one of them speaks in cover, you may be certain that it’s a fox, and know that he may be cheered without fear of a mistake. Unless this be the case, what pleasure can there be to me, as their master, or satisfaction to you, as their huntsman?” Will gave no answer, and to account for the obstinate Harbinger’s fate, all I can say is, that he was led from the kennel the following day, with a coil of rope round his neck. We now carried the drag into the cover, and Trimbush and myself acknowledged the scent. Will gave us a cheer that startled many a pigeon from her roost, and Tom Holt and Ned Adams spurred right and left, with orders to head short back every fox that made his appearance. We got up to our cub, and drove him through the cover at a slashing rate. The morning being warm, and the scent good, there was no breathing time, and the pace soon began to tell upon the family of foxes, which we were now racing in divided lots. “How many of them are there?” inquired the Squire.